


An Ineffable Plan

by thebright1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: "I can't find you!", 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gabriel Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Valentines 2020 (Good Omens), Lust, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Violence, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Non politically correct words for sex workers, Oral Sex, Religious Content, Secondhand Awkward, Sex Toys, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Soul Bond, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Ze/Zir Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Ze/Zir Pronouns for Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 72,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23081191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebright1/pseuds/thebright1
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have a special connection that always lets them know where the other one is-- this has some unintended consequences over the course of their relationship.In which God has it all planned out, Heaven and Hell don't know what they're on about, and an angel and a demon fall in love and break up multiple times over 6000 years.-or-David Tennant ad-libbed the line "I can't find you!" during the burning bookshop scene, and I wrote 70,000 words to explain why.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Brother Francis (Good Omens)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 195





	1. April 20, 2003 (Day 1: Chocolate)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my series An Ineffable Plan collated as a multi-chapter work for easier reading/downloading. I began writing this work for the Ineffable Valentines 2020 challenge on Tumblr and intended to make it a series of standalone stories. By Day 9, I realized I was in big trouble and this whole thing should have been a chaptered work. And here we are. Thanks for all the comments, kudos, and encouragement!
> 
> I made a playlist for this story on Spotify: [ An Ineffable Plan: The Fanmix](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7FBFENIRNe7Eu4sWqylAu4?si=MMaxkEcFTma8FrgqKiuxJg) Each song relates to a specific chapter and they are in order. 
> 
> Come find me [on Tumblr](https://thebright1.tumblr.com).

April 20, 2003

Crowley is coming apart piece by piece.

Aziraphale is halfway through the box of chocolates and every time he sees the angel’s teeth press delicately against the edge of the confection he wishes fervently that it was his skin there instead. His vivid imagination thinks about Aziraphale’s teeth pressing into the skin of his throat, gentle at first, then harder and harder, riding the border between pleasure and pain.

The chocolate shell bursts and pink creme appears on Aziraphale’s upper lip. He makes a noise of surprise, glancing towards Crowley. Crowley tries very hard not to think about other times the angel might make that sound. What other delicacies he could put between those soft pink lips. How they would feel against his cock.

Crowley takes his wine glass and puts it to his lips, taking a long sip. His throat is very dry. He’s not sure how much longer he can keep sitting here. He knew bringing Aziraphale chocolates was going to be agonizing ecstasy. He’s already half hard and grateful the angel can’t smell the lust dripping off him.

Aziraphale’s tongue darts out to remove the creme, pink on pink. He wiggles a little in his chair. Crowley bites the inside of his lip, clamping his jaw together tightly. He wonders if Aziraphale would wiggle pleasantly like that during sex. How it would feel to have that plush arse brushing against his hard cock. Would Aziraphale’s tongue slip out to wet his lips as he sank himself onto Crowley? Would he make that delighted hum and press their bodies together, a tease, a promise, a vow? Crowley thinks about that pink tongue, the soft mouth connected to it. He thinks Aziraphale will taste like chocolate and-

“Strawberry creme!” Aziraphale declares. He sounds.... upset?

“What?” Crowley asks. He closes his mouth, shifts in his chair, crosses his legs to hide his erection.

“This one was strawberry creme!” Aziraphale is definitely upset. “The box said there weren’t supposed to be any duplicates!” He picks up the candy box and his face twists into a moue of disappointment.

Crowley clears his throat and tries to think of something to say that doesn’t start with _‘Would you like to suck on me instead?’_ He comes up with, “Oh, yeah?”

Aziraphale nods vehemently. “And the map was wrong! How very disappointing!” He holds up the chocolate map, detailing where to find each type of confection in the box.

“Well you seemed to like it well enough,” Crowley says and inwardly winces. Is he showing his hand? Does Azriaphale know he was watching so closely? He has been trying to be less obvious about it, knowing how the angel feels . . .

But Aziraphale is, thankfully, oblivious to his friend’s struggle. “Strawberry creme is my favorite— I wanted to save it for last.”

Crowley mentally files that information away for future fantasies and resolutely tries to focus on the discussion topic and not on the mental image of Aziraphale, brought to his wits end with teasing, begging for release, begging for Crowley to make him come and fucking loving it...

“Yeah, that’s uhh, that’s...”

Aziraphale is looking at him strangely. “Crowley are you feeling all right?”

Shiiiit, he thinks. “Yeah, me? Fine, fine, me, just, uhh, just thinking that’s a terrible disappointment, right? I mean, well, it should be a crime!”

“A crime?” Aziraphale is definitely looking at him strangely.

“Yeah, angel, absolutely, they can’t be allowed to sell disappointments like that!” Crowley banishes his Effort as he stands, pulling at the waistband of his pants to hide what he’s done. “I’m— I should go and tempt the bastards!”

“Tempt them?” Aziraphale has put the box aside. “Tempt them to do what?”

Crowley has not thought this through, but he has been in this position many times before and has never let it stop him. “Well, to... to... do a better job!”

Azriaphale smirks, “Crowley I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink.... that’s my job, dear boy.”

In for a penny... “Yeah, but that’s what we do for each other, right? Do each other? I mean do each other’s jobs sometimes? You know, our arrangement?” Crowley puts his wine glass down. This situation is rapidly going downhill and he needs an exit strategy fast.

“I don’t know that I would bless them to never make a mistake again,” Aziraphale says. He pops the rest of the chocolate into his mouth and closes his eyes while he chews. He gives a sigh of satisfaction.

Crowley blows out a breath, before remembering he had banished his Effort. Well, sex is mostly a mental game anyway, right? That explains it.

“No, but I can definitely go get you a box that has the chocolates labeled correctly! Be back in a tic.”

Crowley turns up the collar of his coat against the cold London rain and heads towards the door. Maybe a quick wank will help keep him under control and his 6000 year . . . friendship intact. He has his hand on the doorknob when he hears, “Actually, dear, could you get me a box with all strawberry cremes?”


	2. May 18, 2015 (Day 2: Roses)

May 18, 2015

Working for the Dowlings as Warlock’s nanny has certain advantages for Crowley.

1: Azriaphale is convinced that his Brother Francis gardener disguise and Crowley’s matronly Nanny Ashtoreth personas are both Heaven-and-Hell proof, and thus is more inclined to spend time with Crowley.

2: Azriaphale’s form, while as luscious as ever, is cloaked in voluminous folds that hide his figure, thus Crowley is less inclined to indulge in lascivious daydreams.

3: The prostheses Azriaphale has applied to his face to complete his disguise is completely ridiculous and provides Crowley with an easy way to take pot shots at his very best friend.

4: As Nanny Ashtoreth, Crowley’s Effort conforms to human expectations, and thus, even when he is indulging in lascivious daydreams, no one can tell.

5: Aziraphale knows nothing about gardening and Crowley knows entirely too much, thus Crowley finds himself in the position of being Aziraphale’s savior when it comes to questions of plants. He feels a swell of pride (and thankfully not a swell of anything else, see point four) when he is able to assist the angel and be on the receiving end of one of Azriaphale’s beaming thank you smiles.

It is for one of those smiles that Crowley now labours.

“They’re not all dead, are they?” Azriaphale asks worriedly. He glances around and shifts from foot to foot.

They stand beneath a pergola covered with climbing roses that provides shade for a small bench in the gardens of the Dowling estate. The roses have seen better days. Most of them droop, some have brown spots on the edges, and a few have even begun to dry.

Crowley inspects one of the vines between two perfectly manicured fingernails. He pinches softly and can hear the moan of agony it gives. These roses are dying an incredibly painful death. “Well they’re not dead,” he says, “but they don’t have much longer to live.” The vine shudders in his fingers. “At least, not without a miracle or two.”

“But I can’t-“ Aziraphale cuts himself off, wringing his hands. “I mean— we can pray, Nanny, but God helps those who help themselves, now... so we must think of something to do to help God out, right young Warlock?”

A few yards away, Warlock lies in the grass with some plastic army men, cars, and Barbie dolls. He is too engaged to answer. The toys are having a parade. A real one. With sashes and ticker tape and everything.

Crowley scowls at the angel. “Did you use up your ‘prayer’ quota again, Brother?” He gestures pointedly to Warlock’s toys and snaps his fingers. The Barbies and the Army men begin fighting over who gets to ride in the convertible.

Aziraphale shuffles his feet. “There’s not exactly a quota, my dear,” he evades guiltily. “But I think bringing back the dead is a very big mir- I mean, prayer. It’s the kind of thing that would get noticed.“

Crowley sighs. What Aziraphale is really saying is that he hasn’t got a clue what miracle to perform. When you are a miracling something, you either have to be able to imagine what it is that you want to happen, or know exactly what you need in a given circumstance. It’s actually a rather precise science. Aziraphale is a good angel, but a rubbish gardener. The Dowlings would have fired him ages ago if Nanny hadn’t made several intimations that she was desperately fond of him and he desperately needed a job. And Nanny is extremely good at her job.

Aziraphale continues, “Besides, I think these former beauties could definitely use a woman’s touch.” He snaps his fingers and the army men now have flowers instead of guns.

Crowley purses his lips and raises an eyebrow above the rim of his dark glasses. _So it’s like that, is it?_ He takes a few steps towards Warlock and sets down the picnic basket he’s been holding. “Well, Brother, let me see what I can do...”

Aziraphale flutters. “Oh, much obliged, Nanny, much obliged.”

Crowley almost snorts. _It is definitely on, Angel,_ he thinks. He unbuttons the severe coat, easing out of it and delicately folding it. He places it on top of the picnic basket and snaps his fingers as he saunters over to the pergola. The Barbie necklaces have been transformed into swords. Warlock finds the Battle of the Convertible riveting.

Aziraphale sets up the ladder and holds the bottom while Crowley ascends the few steps so he can clearly see the top of the pergola. And if his calf just happened to brush against Aziraphale’s arm, and he might ever so delicately be able to feel the puff of Aziraphale’s breath across his ankle as he stands at the top and looks at the (almost nearly) dead roses, well, Crowley can keep that lovely memory of warmth and softness to himself.

Perched at the top of the ladder, Crowley lets his fingers trail against the roses, then brings one up close to his nose, inhaling deeply. He reels back, coughing and gagging. “Ugh... ang- have, uhm, what exactly have you been watering these with, and how often?”

Aziraphale blusters. “Oh, well, first I used the hose water...”

Crowley makes a face. _Amateur mistake_. “Did you put a filter on the hose?”

“And then when I noticed the first one had a spot I thought I better find something to keep the bugs away, so I looked up some natural insect repellents... no chemicals or anything to hurt one of God’s littlest creatures....“

“You didn’t-“

“... and then I mixed in the peppermint extract. That was on Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?!” Crowley cries. “But it rained on Tuesday! I should know, Warlock and I spent the whole blasted day indoors.”

“Is that important?” Aziraphale asks curiously. “That it rained?”

Crowley cannot believe him. He absolutely positively can _not_! “What else did you do?” he demands. The smell is awful... much worse than just peppermint extract— and— extract!! Extract!! Like he was making a bloody cake!!

Azriaphale resolutely ignores the indignation and outrage in Crowley’s voice. “...and then they didn’t smell like roses anymore, so I thought some perfume might help, but it’s been quite a while since I bought scent, and I noticed some rosewater in the kitchen...”

The bloody kitchen. That’s where the angel went shopping for gardening supplies. Crowley picks at the edges of one rose. A few red petals fall to the ground. The awful fragrance is making his head swim. They smell, almost....

“....gave the next batch a blessing....”

Oh, that’s the smell. Holiness. On Lady in Reds! Crowley shudders. He almost feels sorry for them.

Aziraphale is still talking below him, babbling on about wondering if he needed a special blessed rosewater. Crowley ignores him. He brings one rose blossom up to his face. “Now lisssten, you,” he says in the most menacing voice possible. It usually involves some extra ss’s. “I know you think you have been through some pretty awful torture, and I agree, but you are going to turn your act around, and I mean but quick or you will find not just yourself destroyed, but possibly your entire species, do you understand?”

The blossom looks confused.

“That man down there doesn’t know fuck all about roses, and he does not know that you are Lady in Reds, but I do. You are a sinner’s rose, and you and I have the same master, do you understand? _I know what you are_.”

The blossom sways slightly, taking stock of the demon addressing it.

“Yes, now you’re getting the picture. Let me make your position clear to you: do you see that little boy in the grass down there? He is the Anti-Christ.”

The blossom begins to tremble.

“And you are in his garden, and you are wilting, you pathetic strain of overpriced ivy. How dare you! Do you think he will remember you kindly when he comes into his full power in four years? Do you think, when we triumph over heaven and he has the power to remake the entire world he’ll look back and say, ‘Well, I don’t remember those Lady in Reds being much good— just wilting and dying all the time’? Do you think that’s the kind of rose our master’s son wants in his new world?”

The blossom stands up a little straighter, still trembling.

“Don’t talk to me about overwatering!” he spits. “Do you think he is going to bloody well care if some idiot watered you on a rainy day after spraying you with peppermint extract? Do you think he’ll be understanding and nice?!”

The blossom begins trembling in earnest now. A few petals shake loose and drop to the ground.

“Pull yourself together,” Crowley snaps. He pinches the base of the rosebud hard. It shudders and then stills. “Now, I am going to perform exactly one demonic miracle for you. Exactly one. I am going to undo all the silly things that silly man down there has done, and then you will bloom and you will look absolutely radiant all year round, and I will make sure that you are not interfered with as long as you continue to produce these nice beautiful blossoms. Do you understand?” He lets his forked tongue poke between his lips. The sight of it causes the blossom to shudder, exactly once, before it straightens up. Its petals stretch high and far.

Crowley nods. “I am the anti-Christ’s nanny. And if you fail to keep up your end of the bargain, I will not only make sure there are no more Lady in Reds, but possibly no more roses at all. Little boys listen to their nannies.” He snaps his fingers. The smell of peppermint is gone. He can’t miracle away the damage from the holy water, but he curses the last few dew drops clinging to the petals. The roses will have to take it from here…. Or face the consequences.

Crowley is suddenly aware that it is quiet below him. He glances down and…. Aziraphale has gone silent because he... is checking out Crowley's arse, positioned just a few feet above him on the ladder.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, a second before he feels a rush of heat to his groin. Point four to the rescue again. Then, because he is a demon, he says, “Do you like what you see, Angel?”

Aziraphale’s eyes snap to Crowley’s face, wide and surprised. “I wasn’t-- I didn’t mean-- Oh, I am most dreadfully sorry,” he apologizes. He lets go of the ladder.

Crowley has time to say, “No, don’t--” before he wobbles on his very high heels and tumbles forward.

He lands squarely on Aziraphale’s chest, knocking him back onto the lawn. Aziraphale’s arms come up reflexively to grab him. Crowley hears a rip, and realizes he has stretched the limits of what his skirt can handle. A cool breeze tickles his bottom. He takes in a deep breath, and feels his breasts press against Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale’s mouth is inches from his own. His nipples are suddenly rock hard. And…. oh, oh, the angel is hard under all those layers. Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s cock press against his thigh. 

Aziraphale babbles. “I am so sorry, my dear, that was just terrible of me. I really did not mean to stare, I just looked up to see what you were doing, and I wasn’t looking very long, I was just a bit startled, you know.”

Crowley lifts one corner of his mouth in a lazy smirk. “I know.” He shifts his hips gently, rubbing against Aziraphale’s erection. “Startled.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale says. He brings a hand up to the side of Crowley’s face. Crowley’s heart beats faster and he wonders if this is it. If this is the moment when Aziraphale is going to kiss him… at last! “I have been ill used as a woman myself at times, and I never want- OUCH!”

Aziraphale yelps and rolls them quickly out of the way as a convertible full of Barbies with very sharp swords runs into them at top speed. Warlock runs after it, leaping over them. The army men are following him in a series of smaller cars.

Aziraphale sits up, Crowley sliding off him in an ungraceful heap. _So much for a kiss._ Crowley stands and snaps his fingers. He is now perfectly put together once more.

“Well, I think your roses are going to be just fine…. Now I have to see to my own duties, before the Barbies hit the coast, Brother.” He puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly. “Warlock!” he shouts uselessly. If the boy can hear him, he won’t listen. It’s the principle of the thing. “Don’t worry about checking out my arse, Angel. I’m not offended.”

Aziraphale gets to his feet as well. “Still, I do apologize. Crowley--”

“Nanny,” Crowley hisses sharply.

The angel bites his lip. “Nanny, I hold you in the highest respect, and I am ashamed of my actions. Please forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Crowley repeats. He hesitates, vacillating on his next statement before plunging ahead. “I don’t mind... not if it’s you looking.”

Warlock is farther in the distance than he ought to be. Crowley snaps his fingers. In the distance, Warlock yells, “Oh no, Nanny, they’ve broken!”

“Got to run now, Brother. I’ll see you later.” He begins taking long strides towards his young charge.

“Cro- Nanny?” Aziraphale calls.

Crowley looks back at the angel, standing under a canopy of slightly nicer looking roses. His clothes are still rumpled and grass stained from the tumble to the ground. “Yes?”

“What should I do to help them next time?” he asks.

Crowley scowls. “Absolutely nothing.”

Aziraphale rewards him with that grateful smile at last.


	3. 1595 (Day 3: Poetry)

1595, Genoa, Italy.

Crowley loves poets. They write inordinately beautiful things and are the most fun humans. They want to indulge in every sin and vice at least once, and usually more than once, so they can ‘write with authenticity’. They need very little tempting, and their words, if they’re any good, will usually cause a number of strong feelings, and some of those strong feelings will be the ones Hell really likes, like anger and hatred, but a majority of them will just be passion and lust, which Crowley thinks are much more fun.

It’s around two in the afternoon and Crowley has been steadily drinking with his new friend John, since around 10 in the morning. John is traveling the continent while on holiday from school and is one of hell’s own, if Crowley does say so himself. He’s got loads of money, is studying to be a lawyer, writes poetry, drinks heavily, and loves women. Well… ‘loves’ in the physical sense.

Right now, there is one particular woman that John cannot get to love him and it’s apparently making him crazy. He stinks of lust. “Crowley,” the young man says, “this woman… you do not understand, my friend. She is bellisima, she is divine!”

“And you’ve done flowers already, have you?” Crowley asks. He pours himself another glass of wine. This is their fifth bottle and it’s almost empty. John drinks with the enthusiasm of a 23 year old man… which he is.

“Oh, you’ve no idea,” John moans. He puts his head in his hands. “The money I have spent on flowers…. I could have bought a garden. Not to mention the foods, the wines, the dresses, the underclothes..”

Crowley snorts. “You tried to buy her underclothes? This is a lady, we are talking about?”

John throws his hands up. He is English, but he has taken the idiom of ‘when in Rome’ literally, and acquired a tendency to gesticulate wildly when he is drunk. “She had accepted everything else, but no amount of subtlety seemed to be working. I thought the underclothes would surely send a sign of my intentions.”

“What did she do with them?”

“She kept them!”

Crowley laughs. “More fool you, I think, my friend. She’s seeing how much you’ll pay.”

John sighs. “But she does not respond. I send gifts and I receive no thank you’s, but I do not receive the gifts back, either. I have used every traditional method I can think of.”

“And this poem you’re writing,” Crowley says, gesturing to the sheets of parchment and quill on the table. “This is what you think is going to win her over?”

His companion blushes. “I…. I hope it may… convey my feelings.”

“Which are?”

John leans toward Crowley and lowers his voice. “That I would very much like to spend a significant amount of time watching her undress and then fuck her until she forgets her own name.”

Crowley chortles. “You’re putting that in a poem?”

John looks affronted now. “Do you doubt me, sir?”

“Not at all, not at all,” Crowley says, draining his glass of wine. “I just find it hard to picture those words in a poem that I would ever read to a lady. Sounds more like a limerick to flatter a whore.”

John sits up straighter and holds his parchment in front of him. He raises his voice,

“Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,  
Until I labour, I in labour lie.”

“Well that’s the truth,” Crowley mutters. John glares at him. Crowley waves his hand for him to continue.

“The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,  
Is tir’d with standing though he never fight.  
Off with that girdle, like heaven’s Zone glistering,  
But a far fairer world encompassing.  
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,  
That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.”

“Well endowed, is she?”

“You have no idea.”

“Men!”

Crowley and John turn to see a matronly woman standing over them. She speaks in broken English with a heavy Italian accent. “You no use filthy words here. I not like hear this talk. I of Italy, I know real God rules, not false King and filthy talk!!”

John comes from a recusant family and looks immediately incensed. Crowley would very much like to come back to this pub, as the food is excellent and the wine is wonderful, so he waves a hand at John and then stands abruptly and bows. “My apologies, madam, my young friend here has simply had a bit too much to drink. Please accept our sincere condolences, and let the sin be all ours. Now, I had best get my friend to sober up and attend confession so he may complete his penance. In the meantime, let me pay for our drinks and your inconvenience.” He places a large amount of coin on the table and smiles at the proprietress.

She melts a little at the sight of the money. “Yes, you go now. I pray God forgive.” She crosses herself.

Crowley gathers up John’s parchment and stuffs it into the young man’s hands. “As well as I, madam, my young friend is too dear to perish in the flames of eternal hell.”

The proprietress smiles at him now. “You good man, you help him learn.”

“Yes, that I do-- I will teach him the ways of our Lord, and the beauty that is the everlasting love from the heart of Jesus through the voice of God on earth, his most holiness, Pope Clement.”

Crowley grabs John’s arm and gently pulls him out of his chair. He begins to push him towards the door of the establishment.

“Blessings to you, Signoire Crowley! Go with God!” she calls after them, as they saunter out the door and into the blazing Italian sunshine.

Crowley holds up a hand in thanks that’s partly a wave and a coping mechanism. The blessing stings like a papercut.

Once they’re outside, he pulls John down the street. “John, my friend, listen, if you want to bed this woman, I don’t know that your racy poetry is going to do the trick. She might be affronted, like our hostess back there.”

“But what will I do?’ he almost wails. “She is in all my thoughts, day and night!” He looks to be on the cusp of tears. “I can find solace only in her arms or at the bottom of a bottle.”

 _Poets,_ Crowley thinks, rolling his eyes. “When will you see her again?”

“I do not know when, I can only hope--”

“Yes, yes, when you do _hope_ you will see her?”

“There is a party tonight-”

“Great, good, listen, I’ll see you there. Maybe there’s something I can do to help.”

John looks confused, then suspicious. “What would you do--”

Crowley puts an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s just say I have a way of being very persuasive. Did you see the proprietress back there? Gave me a blessing and everything.”

“You’re a silver tongued blasphemer, Crowley.”

 _If you knew the half of it._ “Just-- go back to your rooms and work on your poetry, yeah? What time is the party?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Several hours later, Crowley and John are decked out in all the finery the law will allow (and, honestly, a bit more, because John is a law student and Crowley is a demon). The ballroom is crowded, the champagne is flowing. The cream of Genoa’s society is here, beauty and wealth and charm.

John is sulking and Crowley is losing patience. Maybe he doesn’t love poets, after all. But if the beginning of that poem was any indication, it’s one long ode to lust and sin that’s sure to get him a few commendations in Hell when his young friend finds someone willing to publish it (and he will because he’s rich and good looking and not stupid).

“I wrote more this afternoon, would you like to hear it?” John asks.

“Is it as racy as the bits before?”

“Moreso, I think.”

“Well if you’re going to read it aloud we should-“ Crowley stops, suddenly. He feels a tingle run up his spine, like…

“There she is!” John breathes. He gestures behind Crowley.

 _Oh no,_ Crowley thinks. He does absolutely not want to turn around, because he knows that tingle and he knows that look in his new friend’s eye, like he’s seen a heavenly creature, and Satan help him, he actually has….

“Miss Fell,” John says. He looks strangely at Crowley who has not turned around, and then gently nudges him. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Mister-“

Well, there’s nothing for it. Crowley turns and there is Aziraphale, in his female form, all luscious curves and creamy skin, with, yes, a wonderful décolletage quivering above the top of his elegant dress.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says, giving him a beaming smile.

Crowley can’t help himself. He smiles back. “Oh, hello Angel.”

“Angel?!” John is taken aback and— oh no, Crowley has to fix this immediately. “Do you two know each other?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says at the same time that Crowley says, “No.”

There is a strained pause. Aziraphale’s companion, a tiny slip of a woman who is dwarfed by the voluminous layers of her bright blue and very expensive evening wear. “I beg your pardon-“

“Forgive my manners,” Crowley jumps in. “I am Mister Crowley, and this is my friend, Mr John Donne. Miss Fell and I are acquainted… childhood friends, you could say, although it has been many years since we have seen each other. And you miss—“

“Ohh,” Aziraphale flutters… literally, bringing up a fan and furiously waving it back and forth. His cleavage wiggles to and fro. Crowley sucks in a deep breath and pulls his eyes away, stepping gently on John’s foot to get the young man’s attention away from his friend’s bosom as well. “Allow me to present Mrs. Elena Boni, a dear friend of mine.”

Crowley smiles. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” He kisses her hand, and then stands aside so that John may do the same.

“A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Donne,” Mrs. Boni smiles.

Pleasantries taken care of, John is rattled but undeterred. He glances pointedly at Crowley. “So you and Miss Fell are childhood friends?”

Aziraphale is still blushing and fanning himself. “We have known each other a long time,” he dissembles. “But I had no idea you were in Genoa.”

Crowley shrugs. “Just passing through, really. I met John a few nights ago. He’s a poet.”

“Oh!” Aziaphale’s face lights up. “I had no idea. How charming! What kind of poetry do you write, Mr. Donne? Hopefully something to inspire love and piety to the Almighty?”

Crowly coughs to cover his snicker.

John’s smile falters a bit. “Well, some of my poems are about my faith. I am a Catholic, you know.”

Mrs. Boni suddenly lights up. “Really? An Englishman and a Catholic?”

“Yes,” Crowley drawls. “John is a devout Catholic. He even went to confession today, didn’t you?”

John’s eyes shoot daggers at Crowley, who smiles. “It is not yet Sunday, so I have many days left to find myself before a priest so that I may partake in the sacrament.”

“I can’t believe my dear friend John would have any sins he would need to confess,” Aziraphale says gently. He pats John’s arm gently. John somehow manages to look both proud and ashamed.

“Now, Miss. Fell,” Mrs. Boni chides, “that is between John and the Almighty. Mayhaps he covets something that he cannot have.” She glances to John and then over to Crowley.

Crowley smiles. “How perceptive, Mrs. Boni. Coveting is the sin that I think all of us might find ourselves guilty of when faced with so much beauty as there is in this room tonight.”

“My husband often said that parties brought out the sinner in all of us, God rest his soul.”

John’s manners kick in. “Oh, I am so sorry, Mrs. Boni, I did not realize you were a widow. Please accept my condolences for your loss.”

Mrs. Boni smiles. “I accept them, but he has been gone some three years now. While I will always miss him, I find myself quite lonely. Miss Fell has been my friend and my guide as I begin to expose myself to the wonders of the world, as my late husband implored me to.”

“You are on tour then?” Crowley asks, ostensibly to Mrs. Boni, but he’s looking at Aziraphale.

“Yes, for the summer at least.”

Crowley puts an arm around John. “Then you and my dear friend Mr. Donne have much in common. English, Catholic-- is this your first time in Genoa?”

“It is,” she agrees. “Miss Fell and I have been enjoying the most wonderful food.”

“I am sure, Mrs. Boni,” he drawls.

“Oh, please, call me Elena.”

Aziraphale is glaring at him. John is glaring at him. Mrs. Boni-- Elena-- is beaming.

“Miss Fell, Mrs. Boni--”

“Elena,” the young lady insists. She smiles widely at John. “If I may be so bold.” Crowley can feel the lust dripping off her.

John seems to be considering something. “Elena, then, will you please excuse my friend and I for just a moment so that we might have a short business discussion?”

“Only if you will promise me a dance later,” she says. “I have read Il Ballarino and I have been practicing the steps in my rooms. I am eager to try with a partner, especially all these years.”

John is taken aback, but nods. “Certainly. Please excuse us, Miss Fell.”

He drags Crowley into an adjoining room, filled with men smoking and quietly playing cards.

“Crowley!” he admonishes. “She’s given my dresses to her friend!”

Crowley guffaws. “She what?”

“That dress that Mrs-- that Elena has on-- it’s the one I sent her!”

“I wonder if she’s wearing the underclothes.”

“Crowley!”

“You can’t deny Elena has definitely taken a liking to you. And she’s a widow on holiday.”

“I must speak to Miss Fell. She must have mistaken my intentions.”

“No, I don’t think she has.” Crowley shakes his head. “I’m very sorry to say, but you will never get anywhere with Miss Fell.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“I mean, I have known her for her entire life. She’s a cold fish, John. Like a diamond-- beautiful to look at, but hard and unforgiving. Like an angel-- untouchable for mere mortals such as ourselves.”

John is crestfallen. “Then there is no hope?”

Crowley puts an arm around his shoulders. “Only what can be found in the arms of another. I should know. I’ve spent most of my life chasing her. I came to Genoa to forget… and look what follows me.”

“She smiled at you,” John says softly. “Her face glowed like an angel.”

“And that is the most I have ever received in terms of favor.”

John looks to be on the verge of tears. “A love I can never know, a love of fantasy for an angel, a heaven like Mahomet’s Paradise…”

Crowley does not like messing in the minds of mortals. But neither can he stand to see a young man’s heart so thoroughly broken. “Look, John, let me . . . let me talk to Miss Fell. Maybe there’s something I can do. Besides, you owe Elena a dance, and I think she's very taken with you.” He leads John back to the ballroom.

Once John and Elena are on the dancefloor, Crowley discreetly gestures to the door of the balcony at Aziraphale. They leave separately, and find each other outside. There are a few couples milling about on the balcony. No one notices them slip into the shadows by the side of the house, well hidden from prying human eyes.

“What’s the matter?” Aziraphale hisses.

“What’s the matter? What are you doing here? And looking like that!”

Aziraphale straightens and frowns. “It’s the height of fashion. I was even given a hard time by one of the magistrates on my way here who said the gold trim was too much, and I should be warned to keep my dress covered until I arrived at the party.” The gold trim in question is clinging admirably to Aziraphale’s bosom, glinting in the moonlight.

“And why didn’t he demand a payment, do you think?”

“I am a lady!” Aziraphale whips out the fan again, directly the air at his bosom. “Oh, these layers are frightfully hot! And my breasts are sweating! This is a terrible assignment.”

Crowley absolutely does not think about undressing Aziraphale, unpinning the spangled breastplate and licking beads of sweat away.

“Aziraphale, you’ve been giving John’s gifts to Mrs. Boni.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Well, they were for her.”

“What?”

“They must have been-- they weren’t my color at all. Lots of blues. And Elena is so very beautiful in blue…. ”

Crowley thinks blue would set off Aziraphale’s eyes magnificently, but does not say this. “They were not for Mrs. Boni.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “Well, who were they for?”

Crowley takes off his glasses. His eyes glow yellow in the night. “You! They were for you, Angel. John has been trying to court you!”

“Whatever for?” Aziraphale asks, confusion evident in his voice. “I’ve got no fortune, well, none that I have advertised, mind you. No lineage…”

“He wants to bed you.”

“He what?? He wants… to me?”

“Oh, come on you can’t really be that naive, can you?”

Aziraphale sniffs. “I am not naive, Crowley. I am a being of love. I don’t talk about . . . bedding strangers. I don’t know the first thing about it.”

“Angel, you look like sin on legs,” Crowley admits. Aziraphale looks horrified. Crowley takes a step forward, waving his hands. “It’s not a bad thing, it’s just…. You’re beautiful, and this outfit, these dresses, they just accentuate everything that looks so wonderful about you.” Crowley cannot believe these words have just come out of his mouth. He swallows hard. “You’re always beautiful.”

“You think I’m beautiful?” Aziraphale asks in a small voice. “Really?”

“I’m not the only one. John has been writing erotic poetry about you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide. “Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes,” Crowley counters. He steps closer, invading Aziraphale’s space. “He’s got a whole fantasy about taking off all the fine clothes he’s been sending you and, in his exact words, ‘fucking you until you can’t remember your name’.”

Aziraphale snaps his fan shut. “Well that’s just rude. Sometimes, Crowley, these coarse humans are just . . . just quite a lot.” He huffs. “I didn’t know he felt that way. I never felt any love about him.”

“He’s not in love, Angel. He’s in lust.”

Aziraphale crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s your department. Why don’t you just ‘fuck him until he can’t remember your name’.”

“It’s can’t remember your own name.”

“What?”

“He wants to-- oh, nevermind. Also, did you-- did you just swear?”

“Oh, I’m so frustrated, Crowley!” Aziraphale looks to be on the edge of tears. He collapses in a heap of skirt to a stone bench. “I’ve been trying to find poor Mrs. Boni a suitor and it’s not working. I’ve introduced her to a number of different men, but none of them seem to be what she wants. I’ve tried to find a love match for her, but it just seems impossible. She goes on and on about her poor dead husband, but I can’t bring him back from the grave three years later-- Gabriel just did a long presentation on the miracles that we absolutely positively should not be performing and that one was top of the list!”

Crowley sits down next to Aziraphale. He pulls a handkerchief from his coat sleeve and offers it to her. “There, there, Angel, you’ll mess up your pretty paints.”

“This has been one of the hardest assignments I’ve had, Crowley. I hate these awful dresses, and I don’t think Mrs. Boni likes me very much at all, even though I’ve tried my best to be as kind as possible. And now you’re telling me that I’ve accidentally tempted a poet into writing lascivious things and I didn’t even realize I was doing it!”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says softly. “What exactly were you told to do for Mrs. Boni?”

Aziraphale dabs at his eyes and sniffs. “I was told to bring her to Italy, get her settled, and make arrangements for her to have a baby… Apparently this is a long game God’s playing… Mrs. Boni is to be the grandmother to a great poet.”

“A great poet.” Crowley says flatly. He thinks about the smell of lust pouring from Mrs. Boni.

“Yes,” Aziraphale sniffs again. “And I’ve tried to find her a husband, Crowley, but-”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley begins. “I think I have a solution for you.”

“You do?”


	4. July 12, 1986 (Day 4: Tease)

July 12, 1986

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this!” Aziraphale huffs. He crosses his arms over his chest, and glowers at Crowley in the bathroom mirror. “I look ridiculous.”

He’s perched on a barstool dragged into the room from Crowley’s kitchen, where he is currently the recipient of one demonic makeover. Extra high wattage lights circle the oval shaped mirror like a bent halo. His blonde hair is teased into an impossibly high cirrus cloud on his head. Crowley seems determined to make it go higher.

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley grumbles. He pulls the pick through Aziraphale’s hair, lifting it as high above his head as it will go. The room reeks of hair spray. “Let me use one little demonic miracle and this would all be done already.”

“We already went through— eugh!” Aziraphale coughs as Crowley liberally showers him with more AquaNet and begins to pull on his curls once more, torturing his scalp for the sake of fashion. Aziraphale thinks Marie Antoinette’s crowd would have killed for a can of this back in the day, although he doubts they would have been pleased with the incredibly tight ripped jeans Crowley has squeezed him into, or the black tank top with the word “Bitchin’” silk screened across the front in hot pink letters. “We already went through this,” Aziraphale says once more. “It’s not worth-”

“No one on my side is going to notice a miracle for teasing hair!”

“-us getting caught by either side, Crowley.”

“They won’t even know what kind of teasing it means.”

“Gabriel said they would be keeping closer tabs on the demons on Earth.”

“They’re decades if not centuries behind humanity!”

“If they find out that you and I are going to a concert-”

“And if they ask any questions-”

“-together, think of what they will do to us both!”

“I’ll tell them I meant to miracle up a cock tease.”

“What’s a cock tease?” Aziraphale frowns.

Crowley snorts. “Nevermind, Angel, just let me finish your hair, yeah? I don’t fancy being late to this.”

Aziraphale doesn’t like it when Crowley dismisses his questions. It makes him feel naive, and he’s not naive, no matter what Crowley has said over the years. He’s just not built to understand certain things about humans. It doesn’t mean that he’s not _capable_ of understanding them. It’s just not his normal modus operandi, as they say (and that’s a turn of phrase he does understand very well, thank you very much).

“You know,” Aziraphale says, slyly. “You could just go without me. I wouldn’t mind at all, my dear.”

“Oh no,” Crowley scowls, pulling at Aziraphale’s hair a little too tightly. Aziraphale thinks he’s doing it on purpose now. “You’re coming with me. You promised and you’re an angel, you can’t break promises. I spent a month in Guatemala. Doing. Three. Miracles. For. You. For. This.” He punctuates each of the last words by a vicious pull with the pick. “There. Hair’s done, don’t thank me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Aziraphale murmurs, wincing. He puts a hand up to touch his hair, only to have it slapped away.

“Don’t touch it, either! It’s supposed to be that high, it’s supposed to be that hard, and yes, it should hurt if you scrunch your face up like that.”

Aziraphale lets his features go slack and examines his reflection in the mirror. He has to admit, he does not recognize the person staring back at him. Crowley is doing a masterful job with this makeover; Heaven will never recognize him.

Crowley puts a hand on his shoulder and spins him around. He uses the inside of one knee to catch against the outside of Aziraphale’s knee to stop him from turning in a circle, and then crowds up into Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale has only a fraction of a second to think about the intimate feel of the demon’s knee against his own before Crowley’s hand pushes his head back, and splays a hand across his face, pulling the skin away from his eye socket.

“All right, time for the finishing touches.” He brandishes a black pencil in one hand, pulling the cap off with his teeth and spitting it on the ground. Aziraphale hears it bounce off the tiles. “Look towards Heaven,” Crowley commands, bringing the pencil close.

“Why on earth would you want to go to a concert with someone who doesn’t like be bop anyway?” Aziraphale complains. He shifts backward as Crowley brings the pencil tip to the skin just under his eye.

Crowley brings his face even closer to Aziraphale’s and snorts. “You’re supposed to look up when you look towards Heaven, not at me.” Aziraphale looks up, but only after rolling his eyes.

“From this position, you’re actually having me look backwards, not heavenwards.”

Crowley ignores him. “And I want to go to a concert with you for the same reason that you want to take me to restaurants with four course meals when you know I’m only going to be able to manage one and a half.”

Aziraphale’s mouth sets in a grim line. They are getting dangerously close to a topic he knows is better left ignored. But it’s like opening a new book when he’s still in the middle of another…. He just can’t resist taking a little peek beneath the cover…. “Dining is not the kind of thing one does by oneself. It’s . . . . lonely, I guess. A table for one, no one else there.”

Crowley finishes his left eye and turns his attention to the right one. “Same thing, like I said.”

“But you said there would be thousands of people there, all enjoying the same be bop that you do.”

“You can be lonely in a crowd the same way you can be lonely at a table for one,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale knows this already. He can only imagine the loneliness that Crowley must feel. While his colleagues in Heaven look askance at his love of humans and all the marvelous things they’ve developed in their time on Earth, Aziraphale can still feel the love of God in his heart. He can feel the love of humans all around him. These are what he falls back on in his darkest times on Earth. That love . . . and Crowley. Always Crowley. He reaches a hand up and gently touches Crowley’s wrist, the one that’s currently mashing his skin away from his face in an attempt to make him fit in with the humans and blend into a crowd of them, unnoticed by both Heaven and Hell.

“I know, Crowley,” he says tenderly. “I know, dear boy.” Their eyes catch for a moment, just one moment, and Aziraphale thinks, I wish I could make sure you were never lonely again.

Crowley presses his lips together in a grim line. “And for the last time, this is not be bop. Now look towards Hell-- that’s down, Angel, in case you forgot,” he says snidely.

Aziraphale lets go of Crowley’s wrist and lowers his eyes as Crowley draws the pencil across his upper eyelid. “Are you sure this is really the kind of thing one wears to a concert, Crowley?” He picks at one of the holes in his jeans. “It seems a bit worn… and I think they might be a bit too tight.”

“Supposed to be that way. Don’t blink!” He pulls at Aziraphale’s eyelashes to keep his eyelid down.

“Why do I bother looking anywhere if you’re going to manhandle me like this anyway?” Aziraphale grouses.

Crowley lets go of Aziraphale’s face and steps back to inspect his work. He looks proud. Aziraphale is not exactly sure what the effect of eyeliner will look like. He hasn’t worn eyeliner in his male form since the days of Moses.“Very nice, angel.”

“Your version of nice and mine are two very different things.”

Crowley grabs his wrist and pulls him off the barstool. “Come on, I’ve got a surprise for you, and no, I didn’t miracle it up, before you start worrying your pretty little head about it.” He leads Aziraphale out of the bathroom. "Close your eyes." 

Aziraphale stops dead. “What? No! How will I see where I am going?”

Crowley sighs. “All right, just stop there then and close your eyes.”

Aziraphale looks at him suspiciously. “You’re not going to do a miracle while I’ve got my eyes closed, are you?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Would I lie to you?”

Aziraphale glares at him, “Do you mean like the time you told me you weren’t responsible for Singing in the Rain? Or the time you said you were going to do the miracle in Italy for me but I found out that Mrs. Boni in fact never married John Donne? Or that time-”

“All right, I might,” Crowley admits sheepishly, “but not about this, all right? Promise.”

Aziraphale still looks dubious.

“I promise like I promised I would find a chef who could make crepes and would be willing to set up a shop in Soho and give him a loan, all right?”

Aziraphale smiles. “Oh, that was a lovely restaurant. It’s too bad his son didn’t want to take over the business.”

“Angel!”

“All right.” Aziraphale closes his eyes. He can hear Crowley moving around the room, opening and closing a door. He feels hands on his bare shoulders.

“And that whole situation with Mrs. Boni worked out just fine. Your orders didn’t say she had to get married, just that she had to settle down in Italy and have a child.”

Aziraphale keeps his eyes closed. Crowley is putting something on him. A coat? He feels the slide of satin against his skin. “You knew that I thought they were going to get married when I left Genoa.”

“Well, it all worked out in the end for the best,” Crowley placates him. Aziraphale can feel him fussing with the sleeves of whatever garment he has put over him.

Crowley puts pressure on Aziraphale’s shoulders and he turns in place.

“I suppose so,” Aziraphale says. “I’ll take this ridiculous costume you’ve put me in over those 16th century dresses any day of the week.” Crowley is in front of him now, fussing with the collar. He feels the demon’s fingers reach up and clip something to his ear. An earring?

“You do realize I’m staying in my male form, don’t you, Crowley?”

“Shut up, and open your eyes,” Crowley says from his left.

Aziraphale opens his eyes. He’s standing in front of the full length mirror in Crowley's bedroom, and now he’s wearing a suit jacket.

Correction! He’s wearing . . . “Tartan?” He catches Crowley’s eyes in the mirror. There is a very subtle gray and pink tartan pattern to the cloth of the jacket. The pink matches the lettering on the tank top. The collar of the jacket is standing straight up, and sleeves are rolled up, revealing Aziraphale’s forearms. It’s a bit loose, but Aziraphale feels much more at home than he did in just the revealing tank top. A small gold clip on hoop hangs from his left ear. The eyeliner makes the blue of his eyes stand out. His hair…. Well, it’s very high. Very curly. Very teased.

Crowley looks pleased with himself. “What do you think?”

“I must say I like the jacket,” Aziraphale admits. “Although I think the collar doesn’t really need to be up.” He reaches up to touch it and Crowley snaps his hand away like a viper striking.

“Leave it,” he says. “You are a work of art, and I don’t have time to fix you. We have to be at Wembley in ten minutes.”

Aziraphale is startled. “But you’re not ready!”

Crowley laughs. He gestures to the bleached and ripped jeans and clingy black tee shirt that he’s wearing. “Angel, I was ready when you got here.” He puts his sunglasses on. “Time to rock and roll.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that,” Aziraphale says brightly. “Elvis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale are going to see [Queen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SJCTgtDU-74).


	5. 174 BCE, 150 BCE and February 14, 1990  (Day 5: Hearts)

174 BCE, Chang-An, Capital of the Han Dynasty

Aziraphale trudges through the driving rain, his slippers squelching in the puddles and mud. His robe clings to his legs and his coat is doing nothing to keep the cold and the rain away from him. He shivers, his teeth chatter. It is raining and chilly and he wants nothing more than to be safely ensconced in his rooms. He’s been on a long term undercover assignment, making some subtle suggestions and miraculous discoveries for some of the upper classes. The nature of his work means that he must maintain his cover at all times, especially since he does not look like the people here. They were suspicious from the start, so he must make sure to use his miracles sparingly.

He’s just reached the door to his lodgings when he notices a dark human-sized shape lying on the doorstep of the boarding house. Two empty jugs lie near the figure. The poor man is obviously insensate with drink, lying half in and half out of the doorway. Aziraphale can see pools of water developing in folds of the man’s cloak. _An angel’s work is unending,_ he thinks. He steps under the awning and crouches down over the man.

“My good fellow, I think you’ve had a bit too much,” he says kindly. “Let me help you up. You are welcome to come inside to sober up.” The man moans lightly, and Aziraphale just has time to think that he recognizes this peculiar tingling feeling in the base of his spine before the man rolls over and looks up at him.

“Crawly?!”

Shocked, Aziraphale reaches his hands out and pulls at the demon’s shoulders, hauling him into a semi-sitting position. “Crawly, my dear, what on earth has happened to you?”

Crawly’s red hair has fallen loose and is terribly snarled. His face is dirty and bruised and he smells of wine. “Aziraphale,” he slurs. He opens one eye wide and squints the other. “I tried to find you here.”

Aziraphale takes a shaky breath. “You’ve succeeded at last, dear boy. Come on, get to your feet.” He grabs for Crawly’s hands and tries to pull him up, but his slippers skid in the mud and he finds himself sitting in the very cold, very wet, and very dirty mud. He sighs in frustration. Surely no one will fault him for using a miracle in this situation. He makes a sharp downward gesture with his hands, and then he and Crawly are sitting in the back of the boarding house, warm, dry, and clean. A cheerful fire crackles in the fireplace. Aziraphale has only one chair and a small bed in his room, but he imagined several comfortable cushions when he pictured himself and Crawly back here, so they have appeared underneath them. He sighs contentedly, then realizes he is still holding Crawly’s hands in his own. He drops them quickly.

Crawly is clean, and dry, and warm, but he still looks absolutely miserable. In the firelight, Aziraphale can see bruises on his face and neck.

“What happened to you, Crawly?” Aziraphale asks.

Crawly sniffs. “Great things, Aziraphale, great things.” He is still slurring his words.

Aziraphale stands, and moves to light the lamp. “Can you sober up? I think this conversation would be much easier if you had a clear head.”

“No.”

Aziraphale turns, lamp in hand, and frowns. “You can’t sober up?” he says, surprised. “My dear, what did you drink?” He raises his hand to try to miracle Crawly sober himself, but Crawly moves, quick as a viper, to stand and grab Aziraphale’s wrist in an iron-clad grip.

“Don’t.” he hisses. “I don’t want to be sober.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen and he goes very still. “All right, then,” he says, very quietly, very tightly. This is not his . . . whatever Crawly is to him. This is a side of Crawly that Aziraphale has not seen before. He does not think he likes it very much. He swallows hard and steels his reserve. “Well, what do you want?”

Crawly lets go of his wrist, dropping it like a hot coal, as if he’s burned by the angel’s skin. “I’m sorry…sorry for--” he gestures to Aziraphale’s wrist. “But please, Aziraphale,” he says, “Don’t make me sober. I can’t handle it right now.”

Aziraphale does not understand, but he has figured out by now that there are many things he will never understand in this great world that God has created. Chalk another one up for God. “All right, dear boy, all right. Sit down, please, calm yourself. I don’t know what has upset you so, but I’m sure that I can help.” Aziraphale is not sure that he can help, but he’s not sure who would help Crawly, if not him. He can’t imagine a demon helping another demon. And God . .. . that door has been closed for a long time.

“You can’t help,” Crawly says automatically. He sits on the cushions by the fire anyway. Aziraphale finishes lighting the lamp and joins him. “There’s no one who can.” Crawly snaps his fingers and a jug of wine appears in his left hand. He lifts it to his lips and takes a long swallow. “Drink with me, angel. I can’t handle this… not sober.”

Aziraphale has seen humans die from drinking too much. They make less and less sense, they begin shivering, their breathing slows, and then they just . . . go to sleep. Forever. He knows Crawly wouldn’t actually die, just end up discorporated, but he also knows how much paperwork and explanations are required in Heaven when you end up discorporated. Fully grown human bodies without fully grown human souls are not exactly easy to come by. Aziraphale sets down the lamp and puts his fingers over Crawly’s, pulling gently at the jug. “Let me get you something else to drink. There is a new drink that I have just been introduced to that I think you might enjoy. It’s marvelous. You put leaves in hot water and it flavors them.”

“It sounds like medicine,” Crawly says, suspiciously. He lets Aziraphale pull the jug from him.

“Well, it was a human medicine, yes,” Aziraphale says. “But it’s actually delicious, and they’re drinking it just for fun now, although I’m sure it still has some medicinal properties.” He eyes the bruises on Crawly’s face and neck. “May help those bruises you have,” he says delicately. He move his hand in a quick gesture and two steaming cups of water, and a tin of tea from his cupboard appear in front of them. He sets the jug aside, and make quick work of preparing a cup of tea for Crawly. “Try some, dear boy, I assure you, it’s quite good.”

Crawly takes the cup, and brings it up to his nostrils, sniffing. “Smells good,” he says. He takes a sip and sighs. “That’s good, angel.”

Aziraphale releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Yes, I thought you’d like it. It’s the drink of the emperor!” he says, giving Crawly a weak smile. “Or at least, he was the one who started it. Now it’s catching on like wildfire.” Aziraphale prepares his own cup of tea. 

Crawly says nothing. He sips his tea again. The silence spills out between them. Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. This feels incredibly intimate, sitting, alone, in his rooms, drinking tea with a demon. If the other angels could see him, he has a feeling he would have a hard time explaining what he was doing. “So, you said you were looking for me?” Aziraphale asks, suddenly anxious to know what has brought Crawly to his door. And possibly, anxious for him to be out the door again.

“I was,” Crawly says. “I . . . I wanted to talk.”

Aziraphale sits up straight. “I am at your disposal.”

“Not sure how,” Crawly mumbles. He sips the tea again. The fire crackles in the silence.

“Maybe you can start by telling me about the bruises on your face, and why you haven’t miracled them away,” Aziraphale nudges.

“I wanted to keep them,” Crawly says. “Want to keep something.”

“Have you lost something?”

“No,” Crawly says. He looks into his teacup. Aziraphale wonders what he sees there. “No, I’ve not lost it. I’ve killed it.” He snaps his fingers sharply, and an unholy parchment appears between his fingertips. He thrusts it out towards the angel. “Here, read it yourself.”

Aziraphale can smell the brimstone on it. He takes it gingerly between two fingers and holds it up to the lamplight. He reads aloud, “To the demon Crawly, we hereby commend you for your extermination of the plant silphium.” He looks up at Crawly, confused. The demon waves his hand in the air as if to say ‘get on with it’, so Aziraphale complies. “Thanks to your efforts, this plant has now been entirely eliminated from the Earth, and its removal will bring great suffering to humankind, forcing them to turn from God, who has forsaken them, and instead look for solace in my sinful arms. Sincerely . . . “ he trails off, skipping over the many titles Satan has given himself. He looks up at Crawly. “This is what you’re upset about? A commendation?”

“They’re saying I killed it, Aziraphale.” He looks…. Sad? Can a demon look sad?

Aziraphale wonders in the back of his mind if this is some kind of trick, but shrugs it off. He is an angel of the Lord. He knows right from wrong, it’s part of his very being, and one of his duties is to bring joy from sadness. “This upsets you, I understand.”

“One way to say it,” Crawly says. He finishes his tea and snaps his fingers. The cup refills.

“Oh, I have other varieties if you’d like to try them,” Aziraphale says, gesturing to the cup. “There are quite a number available.”

Crawly shakes his head. “So many plants,” he says sadly. “Just not anymore.”

His hopes for a subject change dashed, Aziraphale looks back at the commendation and sets it aside gingerly. He resists the urge to get up and wash his hands in the basin. “So you have killed a plant.”

“Not me!” Crawly says, suddenly incensed. “Not my doing!”

Aziraphale is confused. “But-- this commendation-”

“Thessse ssstupid humansss.”

Aziraphale sighs heavily. “Crawly, will you please sober up, just a little? You don’t need to go all the way back to stone cold, dear boy, but your slurring and hissing are worse than ever when you’re like this and it’s making it extremely difficult for me to understand what you’re trying to convey.”

Crawly takes a sip of his tea. He looks absolutely morose. He nods glumly and snaps his fingers. “A little better, angel. I can’t do stone cold, I just can’t.”

Aziraphale puts his hand on Crawly’s knee. “I’m not asking you to.” Crawly looks up from his cup and their eyes catch. Aziraphale pulls his hand back like he’s been bitten. “Can you tell me what happened, clearly now?”

Crawly tells him. “I’m minding my own business, right? Just stolen a load of slaves and gold from some slave traders.”

“You stole slaves?” Aziraphale asks. He’d often thought about it himself, seeing how some of them were treated, but God’s law was very clear on stealing. It was a moral dilemma he found himself without an answer to.

“I miracled them up all freed men papers, so boom, the Romans are now out a good 500 slaves, and see how you like that. Then I took the gold and split it up among all the whores of the town, without telling their men. So many of those lot cursing God for uppity women.” Crawly seems jovial remembering his escapades. “I heard words that would make you blush, angel,” he boasts.

“I don’t doubt it,” Aziraphale says. He smiles a little.

“It’s all going very well and then Hastur shows up.”

“Hastur?”

“Duke of Hell. Ugly bugger, let me tell you. Doesn’t keep his corporation in good shape at all. Has no idea how to fit in with the humans. He shows up when I’m in a tavern having a nice drink and says ‘Oh, Crawly, you’ve gotten his attention now’. And I said, ‘Who’s attention?’ because, I’m in a tavern. I’m looking around for a barman, or one of those slave traders I’d ripped off. And Hastur says ‘Satan himself’, and he hands me this rolled up parchment, and he’s looking at me like I should be happy or scared or something. So I open it up, and I read it . . . and . . . Aziraphale, I didn’t do this!” He looks desperately at the angel. “I really truly didn’t. I didn’t do any of this. And I said that to Hastur. I said, ‘Look, there’s been a mixup, this is not me,’ and he says ‘Oh, no, no, Crawly, Satan doesn’t make mistakes, this is definitely you, congratulations.’ And then he says ‘they’re going to put a plaque up’. And he raises his fist and shouts ‘Demon Crawly, the Destructor of the Silphium Plant’! And then he just vanishes in a puff of smoke, right there in the tavern. And all I could think is, ‘I didn’t-- I wouldn’t do this.’ And then one of the whores that I’ve just given loads of money to comes over and says ‘Is that true? Are you a demon? Is silphium actually truly gone forever? I’d heard that it was getting rare, and I knew it was expensive and I heard that some of it wasn’t working the way it used to, but I hadn’t heard this before.’ And I didn’t know what to say to her. And then she goes on, ‘My mother was a midwife,’ she says, ‘and that plant saved women’s lives!’ And she goes on a whole rant about useless men and their useless desires, and the whole time she’s getting angrier and angrier, and then more of the whores come up and then they’re all yelling at me, and I’m trying to leave the tavern, but I’m just a bit shocked by the whole thing, and then they’re all hitting me and shouting at me.”

“What did you do?”

“I miracled myself out of there as fast as I could. But I-- I started thinking about what she said . . . and I didn’t have anything to do with silphium going extinct. And . . . and it’s not there anymore. It’s just gone. All of it.” He takes a shaky breath. “Hastur was right-- it’s gone. Extinct. The end. And Hell is saying that it’s my work-- my great work, congratulations, Crawly, you’re a true demon of Hell now, you’ve gone and taken away an entire species from the planet, and a useful species too.”

Aziraphale is not getting the picture. “This upsets you,” he says, blinking very hard. “That you’ve gotten a commendation without doing any work?”

Crawly slams his cup on the floor. A crack appears in the side. “No, dammit, you’re missing the point entirely.” He sighs. “Aziraphale, I was an angel once.”

Aziraphale can feel his ears burning. They’ve never talked about this. Not ever. Not once. “I know,” he says quietly.

“And I-- I made things,” he goes on. “I _used to_ make things. Back when we were all on the same side.”

“Was silphium one of yours?”

“No. No, I never made plants.” He miracles his cup whole again, and refills it with more tea. “But I never destroyed things.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “But things die all the time, Crawly. Humans, and animals, and plants-- they all die, they’re dying all around us, all the time.”

“But this one is gone forever, do you understand?” he pleads. “Do you understand, there is no more silphium, not ever again. Not ever. It’s extinct. Entirely gone.”

Aziraphale tries not think of Crawly diving off the ark into a body of water bigger than he’d ever seen before, tries not to think of the unicorn he’d seen struggling in the waves. Entirely gone. “I’m sorry, Crawly.”

“And no one is ever going to remember it here. These humans, they’ll never think of it again now that it’s gone.”

“You don’t know that,” Aziraphale says gently. “Humans remember things that are gone all the time-- relatives, friends, loved one that have passed on. Did you know some of the humans here worship the spirits of their ancestors?”

“But this is a plant, Aziraphale. And it wasn’t a nice one. Not a pretty rose, or a tasty orange tree. It was just a plant, and it did something that was never nice, but sometimes necessary. And the humans have killed it, but when they get to Hell, what will they see but my name? Demon Crawly, killer of useful things.” He drinks his tea. “I’m sorry I showed up here.”

Aziraphale suddenly panics. Crawly cannot leave now, he still needs… he still needs something. And he sought Aziraphale out for it and Aziraphale cannot figure out what it is, but he desperately wants to give this unnamed thing that Crawly needs. “No, please don’t go,” he says. “Crawly, I’m-- I’m so sorry for you.” He puts his hand over Crawly’s and doesn’t remove it, even when his face heats and Crawly looks him straight in the eyes. “I’m afraid I never heard of the silphium plant. I can’t miracle it back up.”

“I didn’t either,” Crawly admits. “But I’m the killer.”

“There must be something we can do,” Aziraphale says. “Are there any drawings of it? There must be, if it was so widely hunted and used.”

Crawly sighs. “You know as well as I do it’s not going to work, angel. We can’t create it from a picture. We’ll end up with a poor copy that won’t work correctly at all. Do you remember when you tried to create a waterfall in the desert for Eve?”

Aziraphale breaks their gaze, looks down at his hand on Crawly’s. “Yes, I remember.” He thinks of Eve’s joy at the mirage, her despair at the hot sand instead of the cool water. Aziraphale had never been in a waterfall, just seen one. He’d not known how it was supposed to feel, how it should taste. The plants had been real enough, he’d touched all of those. The shade had been wonderful relief from the hot sun. But the water had been nothing but a vision.

“Why come to me if you don’t think there’s anything that can be done?” Aziraphale asks.

“Well I certainly can’t go to my lot, can I?” he says miserably. “The humans are mad at me.” He looks at Aziraphale. “And they’ll say ‘Oh yeah, we’ll remember’. They’ll never remember. Not in a million years.” Crawly finishes his cup of tea and sets the cup down gently on the floor. “I suppose I just wanted someone to know the truth. Someone else to not forget. Someone to remind me.” He pulls his hand from Aziraphale’s to rub the bruise on his cheek.

Aziraphale squeezes the demon’s hand gently, and then lets go. “I won’t forget, Crawly. And I’ll know the truth.” He reaches up to touch the bruise on Crawly’s face. “Can I fix this for you now?”

“Your magic drink here’s not done it already?”

He chuckles. “It doesn’t work that quickly, dear. But I think it soothes the soul.”

“That it does.” Crawly puts his hand on Aziraphale's wrist and gently pulls his hand away from his face. Aziraphale has never before wondered if demons have souls and if they can be soothed. He looks at Crawly and supposes they must do. “Thanks for the offer, but I’d rather not end up with an accidental divine scar.” He snaps his fingers and the bruises fade. He gets to his feet, and snaps his fingers again. “Sober now, angel, thanks for the talk. I’ll be on my way.”

Crawly gives a half hearted wave and heads for the door of the room.

“Crawly,” Aziraphale says, catching him at the threshold. “How did you find me?”

Crawly turns back and makes a confused face. “You know, I’m not quite sure about that. I was very drunk and I just remember thinking, ‘where the Heaven is Aziraphale?’ and then I got this . . . feeling. I looked in one direction and I thought, ‘yeah, he’s over there somewhere’. So I just kept following it. Almost like a scent in the air.” He smirks. “You reek of Heaven, angel.”

Aziraphale nods. “Just so, I suppose.” Then he arches an eyebrow. “And you stink of brimstone.”

Crawly laughs as he saunters out the door.

* * *

150 BCE, Cyrene

“It’s a silphium seed coin, ma’am.”

Aziraphale freezes when he hears the word. He’s doing a bit of shopping, looking over all the fine goods and jewelry littering the marketplace. It’s a warm summer day, but hearing those syllables takes him back to a cold, dark night decades ago and thousands of miles away. He searches and sees the owner of the voice, a man selling a number of shiny trinkets, totems, and tokens. A pair of women, one young and beautiful, the other in the crone years stand before him, looking at his wares.

The proprietor continues, “Said to be good luck in love and marriage. It will bring healthy boys to your womb.”

The young woman in question looks at the older woman and they both laugh. “No more boys needed here, sir.” the older woman says. “My daughter-in-law has five healthy boys already!” She reaches over and pats her daughter-in-law’s round belly. “I was just telling her-- we need another woman in the house.”

The two laugh and walk away, carefree on a beautiful summer day.

Aziraphale still sees the haunted look in Crawly’s eyes. Hears him say, Entirely gone. He walks very decidedly over to the peddler. “My good man,” he says primly, “did you say you have a silphium coin?”

Once he has the coin in his possession, Aziraphale inspects it carefully. He has no idea what he will do with it or how, but now that he knows what it looks like, he can make sure it’s not forgotten. Not ever.

* * *

February 14, 1990, Soho, London

“You know what these look like, angel?” Crowley asks. They’re halfway through a bottle of Domaine Leroy Chambertin Grand Cru, ensconced in the back of the bookshop on a rainy St. Valentine’s Day night, the remnants of a takeaway curry between them. Crowley has been flipping through the channels of the television, making snide comments about the available programming. Aziraphale long gave up on them finding a movie and decided to read.

Aziraphale looks up from his book. Crowley is inspecting the plastic bag from the wine shop down the street. It has small hearts in pink and red all over it.

“What, dear?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley rattles the plastic bag. “These hearts-- do you know what they look like?”

Aziraphale tries to act very, very casual. “Yes, why they look like hearts, you know. Little kid hearts, not the real thing, kind of silly, them being pink and red, they don’t look anything like the real thing-”

“What are you babbling on about?” Crowley says, irritated. “Look like hearts, of course they look like hearts, they are hearts. It’s Valentine’s Day, they put them on the wine bag to sell more wine. I mean the hearts themselves. Do you know what they look like?”

Aziraphale realizes that casual is not working, so he decides to say as little as possible. He shakes his head, tilting his head down. His eyes dart from the words on the page in front of him up to Crowley and back again in rapid succession.

“They kind of look like a silphium seed,” Crowley says softly. He’s holding the plastic bag in front of his face and looking wistful. “Good plants, the silphium were. Humans destroyed them all.”

Aziraphale decides to try his hand at acting. “Oh, really? I remember that you were very upset about that.”

“I was,” Crowley says, with a far off look in his eye. “I thought they would be entirely forgotten.” He snorts and looks at Aziraphale. “And now the damn things are everywhere! Can’t get away from them!”

Aziraphale tries very hard not to smile. “No,” he says, “you can’t.”


	6. April 25, 2003 (Day 6: Perfect Date)

April 25, 2003, Soho, London, UK

Crowley decides that he must be a masochist. It seems very fitting, for a demon to be a masochist. It’s all about the sexual pleasure of pain, and for him, at least, thinking about his sex life is extremely painful. For almost 6000 years all he has really wanted is to take Aziraphale to bed. The one thing he cannot do.

But can he just leave it? No, not him. And it must be because he’s a masochist. That’s the only reasonable explanation for why he is here, in the back room of the bookshop again, less than a week after the chocolates debacle, with a box of gourmet dates.

The window is cracked slightly to let in the cool night air. He can hear the sounds of traffic and people outside. He’s been half hard for the past hour and he blames the increasingly warm spring weather. It’s the ducks’ fault. The ducks, and the birds, and the rabbits. All the animals running around rutting each other. Sex is in the very air. Well, sex and exhaust fumes. The world is getting warmer. Bunch of scientific articles just came out about it. Crowley watches Aziraphale pick up another date. His personal world is getting very warm.

“What’s that one, then?” he asks, taking a sip of his wine and inspecting the label on the back of the bottle to show how he is absolutely not taking an inappropriate interest in Aziraphale’s eating habits. When did this begin to make him so bloody horny?

“Pistachio nuts,” Aziraphale says. He brings the date to his mouth. Pink lips open, date slides in so very delicately, lips close, teeth bite, and pink lips kiss away the other half. Wait for it . . . . little noise of delight. Aziraphale swallows. “Oh,” he says. “That was wonderful. These are almost better than the chocolates, I’m so glad you brought dessert.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Crowley says, distractedly. He sets the bottle down, aware he’s been holding it too long for his ruse to work. He’s kept his glasses on, but it’s not helping. A darker shade of Aziraphale makes him think of the dimmed lights in his bedroom. How would Aziraphale look, splayed there on his bed? Crowley thinks about Aziraphale there, bow tie undone, coat off, sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms with that white blond hair all over. Oh, his forearms. When had he gotten hungry for a glimpse of them, thick and strong? He thinks about unbuttoning Aziraphale’s shirt . . .

He’s startled when Aziraphale plops down next to him on the sofa. He jumps a little, his limbs going every which way in surprise. “What?” he asks. He crosses his legs, aware he’s hard again. Has Aziraphale seen?

No, of course not. Aziraphale has a smile on his face. “You’re very jumpy again, dear,” he says kindly. “I said, you should try one of these.” He holds a stuffed date up to Crowley. “They’re scrumptious.” He lifts the date up to Crowley’s mouth. . . and is he going to feed him? Crowley feels like his brain may be melting down. But no, that’s Aziraphale’s hand, and that’s the date, and he is definitely lifting it towards Crowley’s mouth. Crowley sees Aziraphale’s eyes on his mouth. He opens his lips, and Aziraphale kisses the date against them. His teeth part, and when he bites down, his lips close against Aziraphale’s fingertips, and he can’t help it, his tongue has forked and it just slips out and over Aziraphale’s fingers, before sliding back in.

Aziraphale does not seem to have noticed the transgression. Crowley is not sure if that’s better or worse. “You’re supposed to chew it, dear, it won’t melt like a chocolate,” Aziraphale nudges him gently. He sits back comfortably on the sofa, picking up his glass of wine. Crowley thinks he may be having the piss taken, but he’s not sure enough to say anything. He chews, thoughtfully.

The date is too sweet for his tastes, but the flavors are interesting. Orange, brandy. _Not bad._ He swallows and Aziraphale pounces: “What do you think?”

Crowley tries very hard to not think about what he was actually thinking about, and instead focus on the taste. “I liked the orange and the brandy. The rest was . . a bit too sugary.”

Aziraphale pops the other half of the date into his own mouth, closing his eyes.

Crowley considers if angels that tempt people into lust are blameless because they just don’t realize they’re doing it. They don’t feel lust, so how can they recognize it in others? Hadn’t Aziraphale told him that once? In not so many words? Crowley’s memory is hazy. He’s had a lot of wine. And other parts of his body have diverted the blood that would be going to his brain.

He’s also hit with another unexpected feeling. Longing. If it was just about the sex, it would be one thing . . . he could just go off and find a human if he really had to (although the thought puts a damper on his desire). But what he _longs_ for is for Aziraphale to reciprocate his feelings. What he longs for is Aziraphale to put his arms around him and whisper, “I want you.” What he really longs for, deep in that empty space inside him that used to be so filled up with God, is for Aziraphale to say, “I love you, Crowley.” He longs to say it back.

Crowley blinks, suddenly sick with the feeling. His stomach churns. He turns and sees Aziraphale has gone sheet white next to him, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Angel?” he asks, concern. “What’s wrong? You look. . . . well, you look ill.”

Aziraphale blinks a few times, and then takes a few short, sharp breaths. “I just . . . I had the most strange feeling come over me.” He gets up from the sofa, takes a few steps around the room. “Just a . . . a very strange feeling. Not exactly sure what it was, maybe I’ve just got a bit of a headache? I do know that I’ve worn these human eyes down quite a bit, got a pair of reading glasses, that helped. Or maybe it’s just a bit too much sugar. Yes, these dates are very sweet, and I like that, I like it very much, but too much of a good thing can be not so good for you, you know.”

He’s babbling, Crowley realizes. Nervous. “Aziraphale?” he asks uncertainly. “What’s got you upset?”

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Nothing,” he says, “nothing whatsoever, not upset, just have so many things to do before I leave for California.”

Crowley frowns. “California? You’re going to California? In America?”

“Is there another California that you know of, dear boy?” Aziraphale asks superciliously.

Crowley huffs. “You never mentioned you had an assignment. We could have tossed for it.”

“I haven’t been to California in quite some time, I thought it might be nice to see how things have rebuilt since the earthquake.”

“Which earthquake is that?”

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide. “Was there another one?”

Crowley shrugs. “Last one I remember was maybe 10 years ago? Freeway collapsed?”

“Those poor people,” Aziraphale says. “No wonder I’m being sent there.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Ten years ago,” he repeats. “Ten years ago. What one were you thinking of?”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “I don’t remember the year. It was . . . must have been just after the turn of the century? You were . . . uhm. . . . sleeping, if I recall.”

Crowley startles. “Oh, that one.” He remembers that earthquake very well. And he remembers what it did to Aziraphale. “Well, it was a hundred years ago. It’s going to be very different.” He pauses. “Are you . . . uh. . . sure you want to go alone?” He’s thinking of the tears of relief in Aziraphale’s blue eyes almost a century ago. “I could come with you, take a holiday.”

Crowley can tell that Aziraphale remembers that time, too. “Oh, oh, thank you so much for your offer, but no, dear boy. It . . . it might raise suspicions, you know.”

Crowley nods. He should be used to rejection by this point in their relationship. He’s not. It stings, even after all this time. Even though he knows Aziraphale is right. “All right, angel.” He sets down his wine glass. “Guess I’ll let you get on with whatever it is you need to sort out.”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale says quickly, “Look, let’s just . . . let’s just sit, and we can, I don’t know, watch a film? Tonight?”

“You’re not too concerned about your upcoming trip? When are you leaving?”

Aziraphale waves his hand. “Forget I said anything. It’s uhh. . . you know, a lot of things are up in the air about it.” Aziraphale has that nervous look about him. What on earth. . . ?

“OK,” he says, because what else is he going to say? When Aziraphale wants to talk . . . he’ll talk. Crowley didn’t lose all his virtues when he fell. He still has patience. Loads of it, especially where a certain angel is concerned.

“Good,” Aziraphale says. He gives Crowley a relieved smile. Crowley smiles back. “Good, that’ll get our minds off things.”

 _Get our minds off things.. . what is on your mind, angel?_ Crowley wonders. _And do you know what’s on mine?_

He lets the statement pass without comment and pours some more wine for them both.

*******

Crowley falls asleep part way through _Miss Congeniality._ He dreams.

*******

 _Crowley jolts awake from his decades-long nap. It’s the middle of the day and he can hear birds singing outside, and something is terribly, terribly wrong. He feels a prickling at the base of his spine, and can only think_ Aziraphale _before he snaps his fingers, and finds himself transported halfway around the world, facing a gray dawn in a ruined city._

_“Aziraphale!” he shouts. He looks around, sees people running, screaming, crying. Loose bricks tumbling down one by one, moans of pain. “Aziraphale!”_

_He’s getting a slightly panicked feeling in his chest. The prickling at the base of his spine is growing stronger. He takes a few steps in one direction, then a few steps in the other. He’s not certain which way to go._

_“Crowley!”_

_He turns and he can see Aziraphale now, covered in dust and dirt. There’s blood running down the side of his face. Crowley is by his side in an instant, his hands reaching for Aziraphale’s temple, his fingers snapping away the wound before he can think. “Aziraphale, where are we, what’s happened?”_

_“Crowley, Crowley, thank God for you,” Aziraphale cries. He grips Crowley’s forearms tightly. Tears are welling in his blue eyes. “I need your help, please, come help. There are people trapped in the ruins, we can help them.” He turns and hurries back to the pile of rubble where a tenement house once stood. He’s pulling back pieces of rubble with inhuman strength. Crowley can hear a baby wailing. “Crowley, please, help me!”_

_And Crowley can only do as he’s asked. The harsh words from 1862 are forgotten. There’s only Aziraphale, asking for help from the only person he knows he can rely on. And Crowley coming through because that’s what they do._

******

“Crowley.” Aziraphale is gently shaking his shoulder. Crowley blinks a few times, takes a big deep breath. “Yeah.”

“The movie is over, you fell asleep.” Aziraphale’s voice is peaceful, kind.

Crowley nods, stretches. He blinks away the rest of his dream. Nightmare. How can he have nightmares, isn’t he a demon? Shouldn’t he be giving someone else nightmares? He purses his lips. So many questions he’d really like to ask God, if she would just talk to him again. Or talk to any of them. “Right, thanks. How was it?”

“Well, you did make a few unhappy noises-”

“I meant the movie, angel.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale pauses, seems to consider. “I would give it a solid B+.”

“Should we watch it again sometime?”

“Maybe on the next perfect date,” Aziraphale says, giggling to himself. “You fell asleep before that one, dear boy. I laughed very hard.”

Crowley gives him a slow, lazy smile, as he gets up to leave. He has no idea what Aziraphale is on about, but it doesn’t matter because this is his very best friend, his constant companion, and he’ll figure it all out eventually. He’s still got his patience.


	7. May 12, 1971 (Day 7: My Angel is the Centerfold)

May 12, 1971, 3 AM

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “I think… I rather think I have made a very big mistake.”

Crowley blinks sleepily and looks at the clock in his bedroom. 3 am. “Angel, it’s the middle of the night.” He makes a noise of disgust.

Aziraphale huffs over the wire. “You don’t need sleep.”

“I told you, once you start, you get accustomed to it,” Crowley sighs. He rubs a hand over his face. “What’s so important that you needed to wake me up in the middle of the night? Did you realize that you’ve forgotten to do your taxes again?”

“No, no, it’s not that. I learned my lesson and I have it marked very clearly in my calendar now. No, it’s . . I’m still in Saint-Tropez, and. . . I think I messed things up very badly.”

Crowley takes a second to process this. “What do you mean?” he says slowly. He tries to remember what his assignment in Saint-Tropez was. He’d received it ages ago, and he’d been tired after a very long trip to the USSR, which had been no bloody fun at all, even with the vodka. So when Aziraphale had clapped his hands and said he’d love a beach holiday, Crowley had been more than happy to let him have it so he could stay home, drink wine, watch telly, and listen to the radio. He regrets that choice now.

“Look, I . . . I think you should come here. I can’t fix this on my own, and, well . . .it’s rather a long story.”

This is not good. “Angel, what did you do?”

“I’ll tell you all about it when you get here. Now let me give you my hotel address. You’ll need to come in the back way, there’s a lot of reporters-”

Crowley stands up, snaps his fingers and finds himself standing in front of Aziraphale. He’s still wearing his pajamas, black satin with red piping. “Oh!” Aziraphale is startled. “I hate it when you do that. You need to warn me, dear! What if there were humans here?” 

Crowley is . . . also startled. Aziraphale has taken a female form and is dressed in only a silk tartan robe. His hair is half done up, piled high on his head and spilling down his back. Ringlets curl around his face, which is clean of makeup. His complexion, normally so pale and creamy, has become a bit darker in his days in the sun. The result is that his eyes stand out more blue than ever, and his hair looks almost white. The robe does nothing to hide the curves underneath. He looks absolutely stunning. He sits on the bed and places the phone back into its cradle. 

“Humans,” Crowley says stupidly, trying desperately to make his brain restart. “What humans?” He sits on the other side of the bed, for lack of anywhere else.

“Bianca, or, Heaven help me, Mick Jagger!” Aziraphale frets. He rolls his eyes and tightens the belt of his robe.

Oh yeah, Mick Jagger. Now Crowley remembers the assignment. And the other reason he’d let Aziraphale have it. He’s run into Mick before, several times. The last time they’d gotten drunk in a bar together and the next thing Crowley knew “Sympathy for the Devil” was on the top ten list. He’d gotten a note from Hell thanking him for his service, but asking him to please lay low for a while, because it wouldn’t do to remind people that demons were actually literally here on Earth with them. Satan had this grand plan to convince people he didn’t exist. Crowley thought it was bollocks, but laying low meant that he did less work, so you didn’t have to ask him twice.

Although, if he had known that Aziraphale was going to parade around Mick Jagger looking like that. . . maybe he should have done this one. “Look, Aziraphale, I know Mick, run into him a bunch of times in the past. Whatever you think you’ve messed up, I can probably fix it. All you had to do was to get him to make Bianca sign a pre-nup, yeah? Hell probably thought I could just ring him up on the phone and ask. They think he’s my best friend after he wrote that song.”

Aziraphale looks at him strangely. “Is he your best friend?” Then, “Mick Jagger wrote a song about you?”

“Nevermind, Angel, it’s not important. Just tell me what’s got you in such a tizzy at three o’clock in the bloody morning.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, when there is a knock on the door. His eyes go wide. Crowley frowns. “Who-”

“Zira?” a female voice calls out. There’s another knock. “Zira, you’re not in bed yet, are you?”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and crosses to the door. He gives Crowley a warning look and opens it a fraction. Bianca Perez bursts in. Her dark hair is pulled into a topknot, and she is also devoid of makeup. She’s wearing a floral silk nightgown with a diaphanous robe tossed over her shoulders. She clasps her hand over her belly as she walks into the room like she does this all the time. “Zira, I can’t sleep!” she wails. “I don’t know if I can go through with this, what about the baby?” She stops suddenly, seeing Crowley sitting on the bed, wearing his pajamas. He gives her a smile and lifts a hand up, waggling his fingers at her.

“Oh, Zira, I did not realize you had . . . company,” she says, looking from Crowley to Aziraphale and back again. “I thought. . . . I mean, after what you said this afternoon. . .”

Aziraphale jumps in. “Bianca,” he says, softly, putting an arm around her shoulders. “This is my friend Anthony.” Aziraphale shuts the door behind them, leading Bianca inside. He sits her down in the chair by the telephone.

“Oh,” Bianca says knowingly. She crosses her legs and her eyes wander over Crowley’s form, sizing him up. Crowley wonders what exactly Bianca thinks she knows about Zira’s friend Anthony. Whatever it is, she has decided that not only can she continue her angst, but she has also immediately dismissed him as a threat. “Nice to meet you, Anthony.”

Crowley nods. “Likewise.”

“Zira and I became good friends this afternoon on the beach,” Bianca continues. “She is such a good listener.”

“That he-- uh, yes, yes, excellent listener.” Crowley catches himself. “Zira does an excellent job listening.”

Bianca arches one eyebrow at him, then turns back to Aziraphale. “Zira, I don’t know what to do. I love him so much, and I know he loves me, but this paperwork. . . “

Crowley sits back on the bed and crosses his legs, putting his hands behind his head as he watches Aziraphale work. He’s influenced a lot of humans in his time, and seen Zira do the same. He can appreciate watching a master take control of a situation.

“Now, Bianca,” Aziraphale says. He kneels by the beautiful model’s side, taking her hand in his gently. “I don’t think Mick would ever not take care of your baby girl, no matter what legal paperwork you sign.”

“But Zira, it says he won’t have to provide for me, it’s not right, isn’t that a husband’s job? To provide for his wife?”

“Mick may be a . . . a bit of a scoundrel, but I can’t imagine him shirking his duties to the mother of his child.”

Bianca’s eyes are full of tears. “What if he leaves me?” She frowns in the most beautiful way possible. _Models_ , Crowley thinks.

“Oh,” Aziraphale holds out his arms and Bianca falls into them, sobbing. “There, there, Bianca. Someone as beautiful as you?”

Bianca sobs harder. “But I’m pregnant, I’m about to get really fat,” she wails.

Aziraphale pats her back and gently runs his hand over the back of her head. “Oh, Bianca, that’s just silly. Look at you, you’re just-- you’re glowing!” he comforts. “And Mick-- I do really think he loves you, and remember, you’re having a Catholic ceremony, right?”

“Yes,” comes the muffled reply. Sniffles.

“So he’s making a promise to you not just in the eyes of the law, but in the eyes of God,” Aziraphale continues. He pulls back and pushes some hair from Bianca’s beautiful tear-stained face. “Besides, any man worth his salt would never treat the mother of his child terribly. And while Mick can be a bit of a . . . “ he pauses, looking for the right word.

“Bad boy,” Crowley chips in from the bed.

Bianca laughs. “You’re one to talk, Anthony.” _What on earth have you been telling her about me, Aziraphale?_ Crowley wonders.

“Yes, a . . . a bad boy, I do think that he is, underneath it all, a good person.”

“I know,” Bianca says. She sniffles again. “I know he is, Zira. Underneath all this, he is.”

Aziraphale smiles kindly. He pats her face gently and pulls away to stand. “Of course he is. And this . . . this is just wedding day jitters, as they say.”

“And hormones,” Crowley offers.

Bianca’s brows furrow a bit, but only a bit, because too much frowning would make her look severe. “Your Anthony is right, Zira.” She pats her breasts. “I get these, but I also get the tears.” She sniffs again. Aziraphale pats his robe, and Crowley snaps his fingers, making a pocket and a handkerchief appear there. Aziraphale shoots him a grateful look, and hands the handkerchief over to Bianca, who takes it and dabs at her eyes. “Oh, maybe all I needed was a little cry, you know? I feel so much better.”

Aziraphale holds out his hands and helps her stand. “I find that helpful myself at times,” he says. He begins to lead her towards the door. “But now, you and the baby both need some rest. You have a very exciting day ahead of you, and you need your beauty sleep.” He opens the door to the suite.

Bianca stops at the threshold and looks at Aziraphale. “Do you really think it’s a girl, Zira?”

Aziraphale smiles kindly at her. “We can only pray, my dear.” He rolls his eyes. “Could you imagine trying to be the mother of a little boy when Mick Jagger is his father? Good lord!”

Bianca laughs loudly. “You are so funny, my friend. I am so glad that we met this afternoon.” She reaches over and gives Aziraphale a quick kiss on the cheek, before departing.

Aziraphale shuts the door, and looks at Crowley. “See what I mean?” he insists. “I haven’t had a moment’s peace since we met!”

Crowley shrugs. “Things seem to be going pretty well from where I’m sitting, Angel. She’s going to go on with the wedding and sign the prenup. And what did you have to do here?” Crowley scratches the side of his face idly. “Didn’t you say you had an assignment here as well?”

“I had to get her to marry him, no matter what,” Aziraphale says. “For the sake of the baby girl she’s carrying.” He sighs. “And that’s not . . . that’s not very important right now, because I’ve made a huge colossal mistake, Crowley, and it’s going to get me killed.” He clenches his hands together.

Crowley sits up, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “What are you talking about?” He looks around, puzzled. “I don’t think you're in any danger of being discorporated right now, angel.”

Aziraphale swallows hard and sits on the bed next to Crowley. Crowley does not think about the way Aziraphale’s robe is gaping slightly. “I didn’t say discorporated,” he says shakily. “I said killed. And I meant it. I’ve . . . I’ve done something very bad.”

“Very bad.” Crowley says flatly. All thoughts of Aziraphale’s robe and the soft skin underneath are banished. “What did you do?”

“Yes, it . . . it happened this afternoon . . . yesterday afternoon, at the beach.” He looks over at Crowley nervously. “I . .. there are some pictures that were taken of me.”

“Pictures.”

“Yes, photographs. I was . . . well . . . it was very hard to get any time alone with either Mick or Bianca. They’ve brought seventy-five of their best friends and associates with them, and it doesn’t leave a lot of time for serendipitous encounters with strangers. And then there’s all the reporters out there trying to get in and get pictures. If I was going to get time alone with both of them, separately, I’d need a good reason to do so. And then I met Rick.”

“Who’s Rick?”

“He’s a photographer for a magazine. He has been trying to get Bianca to let him do a shoot of her on the beach. And he told me that Bianca agreed if it was only Rick and Mick there, but that she absolutely had to have another woman there to help her feel comfortable, and it couldn’t be any of her friends because it’s a big secret.”

“And he asked you to be that woman?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Well, actually, he asked the barmaid in the hotel bar downstairs, who knew I had been looking for a way to get close to Mick and Bianca and I overheard and then the maid said that she couldn’t possibly because she had so much work to do, but I said I would be willing to step in, and he looked at me and said, ‘Oh, well, that’s good luck, I was going to ask you next’, and I gave the barmaid two thousand francs when Rick wasn’t looking.’”

“This is quite the story, angel.”

“It gets worse,” Aziraphale says glumly. “It was a nude shoot.”

Crowley shrugs. “All right, and what happened?”

“No, that’s what happened.”

Crowley purses his lips. “Angel, I hardly think either of our sides are going to kill us over a nude celebrity photo shoot.”

“It wasn’t just the celebrities.”

Crowley laughs. “Do you mean the photographer took nude pictures of himself, too? Or did he ask you to take the pictures?” He smiles, picturing Aziraphale trying to work a camera, his pink cheeks flushed with embarrassment at all the naked people around him . . .

Aziraphale huffs. “I mean,” he says angrily, “that he took pictures of me. In this form. Naked. On the beach. In the buff, as they say.”

Crowley’s smile fades. “What?” Blood rushes through his ears.

His face crumples. “Oh Crowley, it was all going so well! I’d gotten time to talk to Mick while Rick and Bianca were discussing some of the finer points of the shoot and framing.”

“And Mick convinced you to do a nude photo shoot?” Crowley wonders if he can make something horrible happen to Mick Jagger on his wedding day and get away with it in Hell. He is fairly certain this will be easy. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No. First I convinced him that he should really get a pre-nuptial arrangement done. It was very easy, all I had to do was start talking about how women really like expensive things like perfumes and clothes, and how beautiful Bianca was. I didn’t say much at all, and then he said out of the blue, ‘I’m going to arrange a pre-nup’ and that was that.”

“And then he convinced you to do a nude photo shoot?” There are so many embarrassing things that can happen to a man on his wedding day, Crowley thinks. So many things that would take him down a peg or two. . . or four.

“No, Mick didn’t say anything, he told Bianca that he had something to take care of before the wedding and said she’s be just fine in my hands, and then he left. Oh, she was ever so upset, Crowley. She said she wouldn’t go through with the shoot, and how could her fiance just leave her like this… she was in tears, sobbing. She said she was going to call the whole wedding off. So she and I had a little womanly chat, just like the one you saw, and at the end she says then she said she would marry him, but she said she would only go through with it if I was willing to do the photo shoot with her!”

“Why in all of the nine circles of Hell-”

“I don’t know!’ Aziraphale wails. “Somehow she got it into her head that if I was willing to do a nude photo shoot then she could be willing to marry Mick Jagger!”

Crowley takes a deep breath and blows it out through his mouth. “So she said she would marry Mick if you did a nude photo shoot?”

Aziraphale nods. “I don’t understand it, Crowley. She was talking about being brave and facing our fears like women . . .”

None of this makes any sense to Crowley. “Why didn’t you tell her no?”

“Because then she wouldn’t marry Mick! My legitimate purpose here is to make sure that she marries him!! What am I going to do, Crowley? Heaven will do more than discorporate me!”

Crowley leans forward. “Yeah, sorry, about that-- why are they going to kill you again?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale stands and begins pacing. “Crowley, please think about this! There are going to be naked pictures of me in a magazine! Bianca did an interview with Rick afterwards. She told him all about how she did the photoshoot as a way to say goodbye to her unmarried life, and how she felt so conflicted about the whole thing until her friend Zira came along. She is a celebrity! Heaven will find out!”

“So what? You were doing what was needed in order to get the job done!”

“Crowley, that’s not-- they won’t understand! Don't you remember the memo I got from head office a few years ago?” He puts his hands on either side of his head. Curls spill loose from the chignon. 

"That memo was bollocks! Gabriel told you that he'd taken it too far-"

"“Do you not recall what happened to Adam and Eve after she ate the apple?”"

Crowley snorts. “I was there, angel, yes, they knew the difference between right and wrong and got kicked out-”

“And they knew that they were _naked_. And they were ashamed.”

“But you’re an angel, it’s different-”

“They won’t see it that way,” Aziraphale says quietly. He stops pacing, puts his hands at his sides. “You know that. You were an angel once. You know what the hierarchy of Heaven thinks about right and wrong.”

Crowley sighs. He does. Heaven’s hierarchy is not forgiving, and they are not into bending the rules. Or even asking questions about them. There are no exceptions in their world. No special circumstances. This is one of the oldest arguments, all those years back. . . before the Garden, even.

Crowley puts his chin in his palm, looking up at Aziraphale. “Do _you_ think it’s wrong?” he asks, genuinely curious. 

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. When it was happening, I felt . . . well, it didn’t feel wrong. We were just sitting together in the surf and talking and laughing and feeling the sun on our skin, and it felt . . . freeing.”

Crowley forgets to breathe for a moment, thinking about Aziraphale in all his beauty, sunlight shining on that blonde hair, a smile on his face. Thinking about Aziraphale being free to be . . . whatever he wanted. It’s a haunting image.

“All right, angel, all right. I get it. So which room in this hotel belongs to Rick?”


	8. May 27, 2015 (Day 8: Touch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is where we earn the Explicit rating, folks!

When his work is done, Aziraphale retires to the small room attached to the greenhouse on the Dowlings’ estate. The room has a worn loveseat, a full bookshelf, and a small wardrobe. There’s also a minifridge, an electric kettle, and a bathroom. 

This room was not in existence prior to Aziraphale coming to work for the Dowlings. The Dowlings’ personal assistant had been very sure the advertisement had not said room and board included, but Brother Francis had been very sure that it had, and he pointed out how lovely the little room was, just perfect for a man like him, who had very simple needs and was looking to relocate from London. The PA was fairly sure London would eat someone like Brother Francis, but Nanny Ashtoreth vouched for him, and Nanny was so wholly remarkable that the PA could not imagine Brother Francis being anything other than absolutely fantastic. 

Aziraphale’s room, attached to the greenhouse on the Dowlings’ property, does not have a bed, and this has never been a problem for him. Until today. Until this very moment. 

Aziraphale shuts the door behind him, and locks it. He crosses to the windows and manually lowers and closes the blinds, then shuts the curtains over them. The room is plunged into darkness. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. He’s nervous, and excited, and scared. He can’t believe he’s about to do this. He’s spent the past week going back and forth about it in his mind. He feels dually embarrassed that it’s taken him _an entire week_ to stop vacillating and make a decision, and that _he has only spent a week_ weighing the pros and cons in his mind. At this point, all he wants is to get this over with so he can stop thinking about it. 

Aziraphale is going to masturbate for the first time in his existence. 

He’s never done it before, never felt the need to. He knows that human beings need touch to survive. It makes sense that his human corporation would eventually need to be maintenanced in this way as well-- would need touch. Honestly, he should be surprised that it’s taken this long. Especially since he’s a purist. 

Some angels simply remove their genitalia from their corporations. No muss, no fuss. But Aziraphale has always thought that since he was ordered to live among the humans, he should try to blend in in every way he possibly can. How embarrassing to go into a tailor’s shop to be fitted only to have the tailor look up in surprise and ask if you’re a eunuch! (Gabriel had actually had this happen to him, and had told Aziraphale about it, except the way he told it the tailor was as dumb as a box of rocks and Gabriel had laughed and revealed his true angelic glory to the man, “Duh, I’m an angel!”. The tailor had then “stupidly” gone out of his mind and was unable to sew another pair of pants in his life. “What a waste of a corporation!” Aziraphale had been completely horrified by this tale, and recounted it to Crowley the next time they met up to trade notes and drink wine. Crowley had asked if Aziraphale was sure that Gabriel was really an angel.)

So touch was what his corporation needed, and after 6000some years, it made sense. And now he was going to do it. He was in his male form, fully functional penis and all, and he was going to touch himself and then ejaculate. Then he won’t have any more embarrassing moments with Crowley like what had happened last week in the garden. His body feels hot all over as he recalls the incident. His penis twitches with interest. 

_Right_ , he thinks angrily. _Time to put a stop to all of this, once and for all. Get this over and done with, and then you don’t have to think about it anymore, and you can focus your attention on averting the end of the world._

Aziraphale takes a step forward in the dark, knocks into the small loveseat. “Oh, honestly,” he says, cross with himself. He flips the switch by the door and his reading lamp turns on. A quick short gesture with his hand and his loveseat becomes a small, single bed. A tartan quilt lies at the foot. The pillow looks fluffy and comfortable. He smiles. This could be quite nice. The bed looks inviting. 

He reaches up and pulls off the sticky prosthetics that puff out his cheeks and give him instant mutton chops. He removes the bite plate, running his tongue over his own teeth with relief. He places these gently on a small shelf by the door whose only purpose is to hold those items. The air in the room feels cool against his overheated face. 

He loosens the tie of the smock and lifts it over his head in one fluid motion. He crosses the room and hangs it in the wardrobe, then looks down at himself in the dim light from the reading lamp. Should he be doing this slower? The Kama Sutra had said that slowly undressing oneself could be pleasurable. He wants to make sure he gives his corporation the maximum touch it needs so that he won’t need anything else for a very long time . . . maybe never again, if he’s lucky. He first undoes the cuffs, then reaches up for the top button of his shirt and begins to slowly unbutton each one. Every time his fingers brush against the skin of his chest, he feels a little frisson of energy. One button, two buttons, three . . 

Once they are all undone, he shrugs out of his shirt, hangs it in the wardrobe next to the smock. His nipples pucker in the cold. Gooseflesh breaks out over his body. To his disappointment, his erection is beginning to subside. He lifts his left hand and gently runs it over his chest, his belly. He makes the movements soft, teasing. Tries to focus on the touch of his hand on his body. It’s not working. His erection has wilted. 

Aziraphale stamps his foot, irritated beyond belief. All this debate back and forth and now that he’s decided to go through with it, his erstwhile Effort, all too happy to make itself known when he’d had his best friend sprawled over him, has now deserted him. 

Aziraphale thinks of what led him to this point. He thinks of the shape of Nanny Ashtoreth’s bottom. He had not meant to stare, but he’d seen Crowley shimmy up that ladder, and he’d seen the curve of his hips and the taut roundness of his arse and thought, incomprehensibly, about just reaching out and squeezing. How hard Crowley would feel in his hands. He feels a stirring below, a little pulse of blood into his cock. 

_Oh_ , he thinks. Oh, that’s the difference. 

Crowley. 

It’s not this greedy human body. 

It’s Crowley. 

Before they agreed to work together to stop the Apocalypse, he and Crowley saw each other fairly regularly, at least before . . . things had gotten complicated. But there was always time in between their meetings. Sometimes weeks or months. . . most recently years. Now he sees Crowley every day, and Aziraphale thinks the demon’s nearness is rubbing off on him. 

He swallows hard. Rubbing. Rubbing off on him. Rubbing against him, oh dear, how he would love to feel Crowley rubbing against him . . . He feels himself grow harder. 

He takes a deep breath. “All right,” he says to himself. His whisper sounds like a shout in the quiet of the room. “Just get through this.” 

He feels a bit weak at the knees and sits on the bed. With shaking hands, he pulls off his boots, socks, sock garters. He closes his eyes and imagines Crowley there in the room with him. He thinks of the scent of roses. Of Crowley’s breasts pushed against his chest, Crowley’s nipples hard and pointy just like the rest of him. All beautiful jagged angles. Pointy chin, slim muscled calves. Oh those calves . . . standing on that ladder. 

And what if I’d just reached out? Aziraphale thinks. Just put my hand on one of those calves. Slid his hand up and down. He thinks about how they would feel under his palm. Hard. Hard like all of Crowley, hard in all the right ways. 

His erection is straining at his trousers. He quickly undoes the fly, pulling the trousers and pants off in a single motion. He feels unaccountably chilly, so he lays back on the bed and pulls the tartan quilt over him. It feels rough against his skin. Too rough. He needs it softer. He thinks about the feeling of satin against his body. He’s always liked that feeling. Without realizing it, he’s transformed the sheets into satin beneath him. He wriggles gently against the sheets, inhaling deeply, loving the slide of his body against the fabric. 

Would Crowley like satin? Aziraphale wonders. He searches his mind, comes across a memory of Crowley in black satin pajamas with red piping. Oh, he remembers that night. Decades ago, now. Crowley with that shaggy red hair, sleep mussed. Crowley, his rescuer. 

The thought makes Aziraphale’s cock unaccountably harder. _So strange,_ he thinks. _So strange that it makes me want him more._

(That he’s thought of how he wants Crowley instead of how he wants to give his corporation the care and feeding it needs escapes him.)

Aziraphale lets his mind wander. He thinks about Crowley in those black satin pajamas again. He thinks about unbuttoning the top, slowly, each small black bead disappearing into the hole and coming out the other side, soft fabric parted, cool skin underneath. Or hot skin? Would Crowley like it if Aziraphale undressed him? Would it make him hot the way Aziraphale feels hot right now? He can’t get those words out of his head. _“I don’t mind . . . not if it’s you looking.”_

His cock throbs. Oh, he’d like to look and look and look. And touch. Oh, touching. He thinks about a flat chest, about small breasts with pointy nipples. Crowley in his male form, his shirt gaping, the curls of his chest hair, Crowley in his female form, Crowley in that blue dress all those years ago . . .

He lets out a small whimper. He’d forgotten about the dress. He remembers it now. Remembers the way it clung to Crowley’s bottom. . . . oh. . . . He thinks about peeling that dress up, warm skin under his palm, trailing his fingers down, down, running them across Crowley’s labia, sinking one deep inside. He whimpers again. Would Crowley whimper? Would Crowley want him? Like that? Like this? 

Aziraphale runs his fingers down his body, under the quilt. He imagines that the fingers that touch him are long and shapely . . . Crowley’s fingers. Maybe with a painted red nail, maybe not. 

Aziraphale uses one hand to circle his nipple, gently pinching the tiny nub. The other hand moves lower, over the swell of his belly. His fingers push through the thatch of curls towards his cock. 

He imagines Crowley teasing him. Of course Crowley would tease him. Crowley would know exactly what Aziraphale needs. _Do you like this, angel?_

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispers, completely lost in the moment. _Oh, yes._

He circles his cock with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing the base. A drop of precum slips out and slides down his cock. His other hand slides from his nipple down between his legs, cupping his balls. He squeezes gently, then presses his thumb flat against his perineum. Crowley would press a finger here gently. Or maybe . . . oh. . . maybe his tongue. He thinks how warm and wet it would feel. Thinks about Crowley’s breath hovering here, hot on his balls. He thinks about that wonderful tongue. . . Crowley’s tongue goes flat and forks sometimes. . . Aziraphale is not really sure if he controls it or not. He suspects it’s a bit of both. 

_Do you want my mouth, angel? Do you want me to put my mouth on you?_

Aziraphale moans softly at the fantasy. “Yes,” he whispers. He wishes he could truly hear Crowley’s voice, wishes fervently that Crowley was here with him, saying those words. _Oh, Crowley, how I love you. . ._

He’s leaking precum steadily now, and he slips his fingers into it, rubbing it all over his aching cock. His fingers drag along the sensitive skin. It’s not enough. He needs more wetness. He needs Crowley’s mouth there. Oh, how he wants it . . . wants to feel that tongue wrap around him, squeeze. . . .

He squeezes his cock, but it’s not enough wetness. In desperation, he brings a hand up to his mouth, licks the palm of his hand, tasting his own precum, and then plunges his hand back under the blanket, rubbing his saliva all over his cock. _Yes._ He makes a fist around his cock with one hand, the other cupping his balls. He pictures Crowley’s mouth, open, wet, dripping. He thinks about that mouth swallowing him, inch by inch. He slides his hand up and down his cock experimentally, moaning as he strokes up, squeezing his fingers together at the very tip. 

Oh, that’s so good. . . so good. His arse clenches, pushing his hips forward into his fist. He wants so badly. . . . 

He thinks about Crowley pulling his mouth off him, sliding that tongue up his body, flicking at his nipples. 

_Do you want me angel? Do you want to be inside me?_

He moans, loudly now, thinks about sinking his cock deep inside Crowley. Imagines Crowley moaning, too. _You feel so good inside me._

“So good,” Aziraphale says, tightening his fist, sliding his slick hand up and down the length of his shaft. His hips buck forward, he’s sweating under the quilt, dampening the satin under him. He pulls at the quilt, pushes it to the side, the cool air meeting his skin once more. It only heightens his arousal. Aziraphale can feel the pressure building inside him. Behind his eyelids, he can see Crowley above him, head thrown back, red hair wild, golden eyes shining. Crowley is moaning with pleasure, with the pleasure of him, of Aziraphale, Aziraphale inside him, Aziraphale thrusting his cock in and out. Crowley is glorious, beautiful, and the look of bliss and ecstasy on Crowley’s face is because of _him_ , belongs to him. 

_Aziraphale,_ Crowley moans in his mind, _Aziraphale, I love you._

Aziraphale feels a sudden tightening and then a burst. His whole body shudders, and he moans as he comes, his hand a blur that slows to a sticky stop. Aziraphale’s chest is heaving, deep gasps of air as his heart rate slows and he comes back to himself. 

He opens his eyes. 

Crowley stands at the foot of the bed. He’s still wearing Nanny’s clothes. A bottle of wine is clutched tightly in his hands. He’s staring very intently at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale’s mind is hazy. Is this real? “Cr- Crowley?” he asks. And oh . . . oh it is real because Crowley starts like a frightened rabbit. The bottle of red lands on the carpet with a thud, rolls across the floor. 

“Angel . . Aziraphale. . . I . . uh. . . sorry . . . just I thought . . “ 

Aziraphale stays silent. He doesn’t know what to say. What can he say? What does one say in this kind of situation? 

“I- I’m sorry, I should have knocked,” Crowley says. He turns on his heel and slams the door shut behind him. 

Aziraphale closes his eyes and huffs. The Kama Sutra didn’t mention this. 


	9. 4004 BCE (Day 9: Kiss)

4004 BCE

“It wouldn’t be funny at all!”

Crawly shrugs. “Just trying to see the bright side of things. After all, it’s done now.” He can’t believe this angel gave away his flaming sword to God’s new pets. There’s got to be a thousand heavenly bylaws about physical property. 

Thunder rumbles in the distance. The angel glances at him again, warily. “Yes, well, I suppose you’d have to,” he says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you’re a demon. It’s not . . . It’s not an enviable position to be in. I mean, from what I understand.”

Crawly scowls. “Yeah and what do you know about it?” The angel is silent. Crawly huffs. “At least I don’t have to put up with all the sanctimonious bullshit and rules that your lot do anymore.”

“No, you don’t,” he says simply. “Instead you have to deal with Hell. Michael says it’s not very nice.”

Crawly snorts. _What does Michael know?_ He remembers zer, the traitor. Ze should have fallen with the rest of them. Michael had questions, too. But ze had only whispered them to other angels. When the time had come to take a stand, ze had let Lucifer take the Fall. Literally. 

The first raindrops begin to hit. “That’s cold!” Crawly exclaims. The drops feel like ice against his skin. He shivers. The water in the Garden had been warm when he’d slithered in. He thought all water was supposed to be warm. 

The angel stretches out a wing. “Come under here,” he motions. “I’ll keep you dry.”

Crawly is suspicious, but grateful for the shelter. He steps closer, under the angel’s wing. “It doesn’t feel cold to you?” he asks, curious. He knows they are different now, after the Fall, knows he lost some things and gained others, but he’s not exactly sure of all the differences. No one in Hell has a clue what’s going on. Satan found out about the Garden and the humans and Crawly was one of the few standing around not writhing in pain, plotting a second rebellion to get back into Heaven, or trying to gnaw his own arm off, so up he went. They’ve only been down there a little over a week. Hell is absolute chaos. 

“It is cold,” the angel admits. “But it’s tolerable. Even feels a little refreshing.”

Crawly steps closer to the angel. He has a peculiar feeling in his stomach. “What’s your name?”

“Oh!” the angel looks embarrassed. “Oh, I’m sorry! That’s so rude of me.” He waves a hand at Crawly. The rain is coming down in sheets now. The angel is soaked to his skin. Crawly, under his wing, is mostly dry. “I’m Aziraphale, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

“Aziraphale,” Crawly says, letting the syllables roll in his mouth. “What are you guarding the gate from, Aziraphale?”

“You know, no one ever told me. I mean, you didn’t come in through the gate, so I guess it wasn’t you.”

“Typical management,” Crawly says. “Just send a fellow to work, give him a flaming sword and say ‘Good luck!’ No onboarding, no instructions. Did they even introduce you to Adam and Eve?”

Aziraphale dithers. “Gabriel is very busy in the aftermath of everything. God, too. She just told me-“

“She spoke to you directly?” Crawly asks, a little in awe. He remembers trying to talk to God. When She’d first created the angels She was always around. Crawly remembers long discussions with Her, remembers taking stars from Her and moving them around in the sky. _How should I arrange them, Mother? Oh, whatever you like best._ Then more and more angels arrived and it was harder and harder to see Her. Crawly hadn’t wanted to chat much, he pretty much knew what he should be doing, but he had had several questions. He reached out, but there was only silence. No answers from Her and definitely none from Gabriel, the prick.

“Yes, doesn’t that always happen?”

“Were you born yesterday?”

“No, it was a little over a week ago.”

Crawly doesn’t know how to respond to this. He takes schadenfreude in the fact that whatever is going on in Heaven seems to be just as confusing as Hell right now. “So you- you weren’t around for the War?” 

“Oh no,” Azriaphale says cheerfully. “Afraid I just missed it.”

“Lucky you,” Crawly mutters. 

“I suppose so. I don’t think I would be very good in a war, I’m a being of love.”

Crawly snorts. “We all were.” 

Aziraphale is peeking at him from the corner of his eye nervously. The rain has petered down to a soft drizzle. His blonde curls stick to his forehead. Crowley thinks he’s never seen anything more beautiful. He begins to reproach himself for the thought, thinking of all of God’s amazing creations, all the ones he helped with, but then he remembers he’s a demon now, and decides to go with it. This angel is beautiful. And special.

“So what exactly did God say to you?”

“Well, She said that I was supposed to come here to Earth, and that I should look after the humans. I said I wasn’t sure how to care for humans, but She said it would be obvious. Then She gave me a flaming sword and sent me to Gabriel for directions on how to get here.” 

“So what is your assignment now?” 

“Well. . .” Aziraphale considers. “It hasn’t really changed.”

“But there’s not much point in guarding the gate anymore.” 

The rain stops. Aziraphale flutters his wing gracefully, gently shaking the raindrops out. Crawly is almost completely dry. “That rain felt quite nice, but these robes aren’t very comfortable when they’re wet.” 

Crawly eyes Aziraphale, that peculiar feeling in his belly stirring again. The white robes have turned translucent from the rain. They cling to Aziraphale’s figure which is . . . magnificent. Crawly can see the curve of his belly, the sweep of his arse. He’s never seen a figure like this. His own corporation is all pointy, sharp edges. Eve had looked somewhat soft like this, but he’s never seen a male corporation with all these graceful arches and dips. He wants to reach out and touch the angel. He looks soft. Would he be soft? Would he let Crawly squeeze him gently in all those soft places? Crawly wants to. Crawly looks up and catches the angel’s eyes. “Allow me,” he says, to cover his staring. He leans towards Aziraphale and blows a blast of warm air. He winks because he thinks it looks cool. The angel’s robes are dry and warm. 

Aziraphale looks down at his robes in delight. “Oh, that’s so nice-”

“Don’t!” Crawly shouts, panic welling up inside him. He hears a sound like a thousand bees buzzing in his skull, puts his hands up to cover his ears, as if it would do any good. It’s the same sound he heard when he Fell, and he shudders with the memory. 

Aziraphale steps back, alarmed. “What?”

“You can’t say that,” Crawly says. “Never, never, ever say that, not to me, not ever, do you understand? I’m a demon. I’m not nice. I’m never nice. I can’t be nice. It’s not allowed.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize,” Crawly spits. “I’m a demon. I don’t accept apologies. There’s no forgiveness in Hell.”

Aziraphale frowns. It’s a terrible look on him. Crawly wishes he could take the words back. “All right, I understand.” 

An awkward silence hangs between them. The sun is starting to set. They watch Adam and Eve in the distance. They’re setting up camp. The silence lengthens.

Crawly opens his mouth and says “Look, Aziraphale-“ at the same time that Aziraphale says “Crawly, could we-“

They stop, looking at one another. Crawly waves his hand for Aziraphale to continue. 

“Well what is your plan, demon?”

Crawly shrugs. “Not sure. Keep making trouble? Bit tough if I don’t know exactly what I should and shouldn't be doing, or what the humans _shouldn’t_ be doing.” 

Aziraphale nods in understanding. “I can see how it would be.”

“I guess I could keep asking them questions.” 

Aziraphale looks at him in confusion. “Is that all you did?” 

Crawly raises an eyebrow appraisingly. “You are new.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know all the rules yet. Gabriel said there would be a meeting after he finished sorting everything out after uhm. . . the War.” 

Crawly sighs. “Well, I can give you one piece of advice: don’t ask too many questions of people upstairs, especially Gabriel. Unless you’d like to find out if you’d look half so good with black wings instead of white ones.” He winks at the angel again, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem nearly as pleased. 

“Is there something wrong with your eye? I mean, apart from the snake bits?”

So much for his cool new move. “Yeah, had something in it,” he lies. 

“Oh, let me see.” The angel steps forward, places both hands on either side of Crawly’s face, bringing it within inches of his own. He stares deeply into Crawly’s left eye. Crawly is aware of the close proximity of their bodies. Aziraphale’s belly brushes his own ever so slightly, and Crawly wants suddenly to close the distance between them, to be skin to skin, as he’s seen the humans do. He wants to get as close as he possibly can to Aziraphale. To this angel who gave his flaming sword to the humans because, per God’s Ineffable Plan, that seemed like the most obvious thing to do. 

“Well, I don’t see anything,” Aziraphale pronounces. “Although you do have lovely yellow eyes, my dear.” 

There’s that feeling in the pit of Crawly’s stomach again. “Thanks angel,” he says automatically, then pauses, suddenly unsure. “Do you think I shouldn’t have said that?” He thinks of Ardomicus, poor bugger. She’d been tending to the Fallen, the ones who’d gone out of their mind in the absence of God’s love. She had spent time reassuring them all that God did love them, She would take them back, She was just angry. Satan had plucked all the feathers from her wings, then tossed her back in the boiling sulfur for good measure _. There is no going back and no forgiveness_. 

“Well, I guess you don’t have to thank me in the future,” Aziraphale says. “I’ll just know you mean to and you can just not say it. I don’t want to get you into trouble. I mean . . .” He drifts off, looking at Crawly. “Oh you look so lovely in the sunset, my dear. Your hair and eyes just light up.”

Crawly has been numb inside since the Fall. It’s how he’s been able to manage. How he was able to stand up, cough, and look around at all the pain and misery around him and not go mad. There’s a space inside him where God’s love used to fill everything up, and it’s a hollow empty cavern there. But Aziraphale says _my dear_ and Crawly feels an echo inside him. A tiny, small spark. 

_That is the kind of thing that will get you killed, you idiot. Or worse._

“Angel, we are on opposite sides.”

Aziraphale frowns again. “I know that!”

This angel has a lot to learn. “When is your next meeting with Gabriel?” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “Soon, I should think. I really didn’t get an orientation at all, as you pointed out. I’ve just been winging it, but God has faith in me, and I have faith in Her.” He smiles. That echo reverberates within him. Oh, no, this is very not good at all. 

“Well, I should get going,” Crawly says. 

Aziraphale looks incredibly disappointed. “Oh, you’re going. Where?”

“Well. . .” He thinks. “Back to Hell, I guess. Maybe take a little walk around Earth. First time I’ve been here and all.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says automatically. “I- uhm, I should stay here.” He gestures to where Adam and Eve have set up camp. “Look after them, you know. But. . .” He hesitates. “I would like to. . . To keep in contact, somehow.”

“I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, angel. I’m supposed to be causing trouble for the humans and you’re supposed to be protecting them from it.” 

“Professional adversaries, yes,” Aziraphale agrees. “Do you think that means we can’t be . . . Well, professional about the whole thing, at least?”

Crawly is not sure what Aziraphale means by professional. He’s about to say so when Aziraphale steps forward and suddenly presses his lips to Crawly’s own. Crawly is so surprised he doesn’t respond in any way, just stands there, unmoving, dumbfounded. He will replay this moment in his mind a million times in the next 6000 years and curse his inexperience, his fear, his anxiety. Crawly feels a tingling sensation buzz in the base of his spine. It’s not unpleasant, just surprising. Unexpected. Before he has time to register anything else, Aziraphale pulls back. 

“There,” he says, with a self satisfied look. “Now we can always find each other if we need to.”

“Why do you think we’re going to need to find each other?”

“It’s a very large world. And as you said, I’m meant to be thwarting you, and you’re meant to be causing problems for me, right? Just easier for both of us if we know where the other is. Can’t thwart you if I can’t find you.” He smiles. “And. . . you’ve been. . .” He searches for a phrase. “I have enjoyed talking with you.” 

Crawly absolutely needs to leave right now and possibly never see this angel again if he wants to stay alive. But he also absolutely needs to see Aziraphale again if he wants to keep his sanity and not lose himself in that deep chasm inside him. 

He nods. “Same here, Angel.”

He leaves and manages to somehow avoid Aziraphale for the next 1000 years. It’s the first time he feels Aziraphale’s distress signal, planted deep inside him where God’s love used to dwell, with that gentle kiss. He comes immediately. 


	10. 1941 (Day 10: Champagne)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Miele_Petite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miele_Petite/pseuds/Miele_Petite) drew 1940s Aziraphale and Crowley for this day of the challenge too! Check out her awesome artwork below! Thanks so much for letting me use this beautiful piece as an illustration for this installment! 

1941

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” Crowley says. He hands the case of books to Aziraphale, their fingers touch, and Aziraphale feels a sudden surge of _love_ and he’s completely overwhelmed. He can feel _love_ pouring off of Crowley. He reaches his finger out, seeking more contact, looking for that brush of skin against skin to confirm and yes… oh, so much love. He feels his heart beat faster. Crowley loves him. Crowley. A demon. His mouth hangs open. Love. From Crowley. _From a demon._ It shouldn’t be possible, it can’t be possible, can it? 

“Lift home?” Crowley asks, unaware of Aziraphale’s inner turmoil.

Aziraphale swallows thickly. His legs feel shaky. His entire world has been upended. He thinks he might faint. He’s never fainted in his life, but he has seen humans do it plenty of times, just collapse into unconsciousness. It always looks uncomfortable, especially if there is no one around to catch you. 

_Crowley would catch you,_ Aziraphale thinks. His breathing quickens. He begins to sweat. His thoughts are a jumble of mixed up lights and sounds. He can feel the cold air around him, the smell of the smoke, the buzz of the retreating planes overhead, and-

“Hey.” Aziraphale jumps. Crowley stands close, a hand on his shoulder. He’s radiating love. Aziraphale’s shoulder feels warm through his coat. He’s dizzy with the feeling. “You all right, angel?” He peers over the rim of his dark glasses. “Did you get hit by something?”

_You,_ Aziraphale thinks. “I’m . . .” he stops, takes a deep breath, and tries to collect himself. “I think I’m just a bit . . “ 

Crowley nods. He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat, and pulls out a flask. “It’s a lot,” he says simply. “Sometimes I don’t know how the humans do it over and over again.” He uncaps the flask, holds it out. Aziraphale reaches a hand up. It’s trembling. He furrows his brows and stares at it. He’s not trying to make his hand shake. He feels completely out of control. 

Crowley takes his hand and claps it to the flask. Love and relief flood his senses, but it’s calming instead of worrying. “Easy, angel.” Crowley lifts the flask to Aziraphale’s lips. Brandy trickles down his throat. It burns all the way down, the fire blasting away all the shakes. Crowley brings the flask back down, caps it, and returns it to his jacket pocket. “Better?” he asks. 

Aziraphale wants to say absolutely not, because he can still feel love radiating off Crowley and it’s like an echo that grows stronger instead of dying away. But his hands have stopped shaking, and he can feel the ground firm and hard under his feet, so he supposes it’s helped. “I-- I think so. I’m still. . . “ he trails off. 

Crowley puts an arm around his shoulders, pulls him towards the car. “Say no more. I’ve got a surprise in the car for you that’ll help. Let’s go back to your shop.” 

Aziraphale wants simultaneously to say _Please don’t touch me_ and _please don’t stop touching me_. What comes out instead is, “I don’t know if I can take any more surprises.” 

Crowley chuckles as the Bentley comes into view, miraculously whole and unscratched amid the destruction. “You’ll like this one. I just got back from France. Brought you a souvenir from my time with Count de Vogüé.” 

Safely ensconced in the car, Aziraphale clutches the bag of books so hard that he fears he might break the handle, or the fingers of his own corporation. He stares out the window at London by moonlight. Crowley drives in silence, headlights off, easily maneuvering the Bentley through dark streets littered with debris. 

Aziraphale’s thoughts are a bit less panicked. He’s already adjusting to the feeling of love that he feels from Crowley. Or maybe it’s a bit dimmed? Whatever has happened, the feeling is not nearly as strong as it was, and Aziraphale is grateful because he can start to sort it all out. He loves Crowley. Of course he does. He’s a being of love. It’s all he knows. He loves everything. Even things he doesn’t much care for (horses, for example), are things that still deserve love, everyone deserves love, and as a representative for the Almighty Herself, charged with looking after the human race and all the things they love, it’s his duty to love. His privilege. To love everything that God made. 

So he’s loved Crowley forever, ever since they met on the wall of the Garden and watched Adam and Eve make their way into the harsh world. That’s been fine for all these years because Crowley is a demon and demons can’t love. So it’s fine if he loves Crowley, because his love will never be reciprocated. That’s just fine. But it’s not true. 

_They can’t be forgiven._ Gabriel’s words ring in his ears. That horrible meeting so many years ago, just after Jesus came. Just when Aziraphale thought that there might be a chance. . . _They rebelled. Rejected God’s love. They can’t love. They don’t know how._

Aziraphale feels tears well up in his eyes. “It’s so wrong,” he whispers to himself. 

Crowley hears him. “You’re not upset about the Church, are you? Look, they’ll rebuild, just like everything else. Easier to rebuild a Church than to get you a new corporation. And didn’t you say Gabriel was on you again about using too many miracles?”

Aziraphale blinks back the tears, keeps his face turned resolutely to the window. He nods assent, not trusting his voice not to break, not trusting the words that might come out. 

“I’d like to see him live in London right now and make it through a day without using more than his allotment. Does he realize that people are fleeing into the countryside? Like the fourteenth bloody century all over again.”

Aziraphale coughs, his confusion cutting through his heartbreak. The fourteenth century? “What?” He gives Crowley an incredulous look. 

“All those people sending their kids out into the wilderness to fend for themselves. Locking their loved ones up to die alone of plague? Awful mess. You missed the worst of it. Hope the Nazis never get their hands on anything like that.”

Aziraphale remembers the fourteenth century. Lots of complaints about the sudden uptick in work from Heaven. He had spent a significant amount of time working in Italy and China, and had always managed to be where the plague wasn't somehow. “I’m glad I missed it.” He pauses. “Is that why you showed up and demanded that we drink our weight in baijiu that time?”

Crowley chuckles. “It was the only way to get through it. Some of the things I saw. . . Earth sure was giving Hell a run for its money.”

Aziraphale finds himself thinking back on all of his encounters with Crowley, refocusing all of their time together. All the times Crowley showed up when he needed him. Aziraphale had rationalized it all away. Put it down to it just being easier for Crowley to help him than actually having to worry about someone actively fighting against him. The devil you know . . . well, angel . . versus the one you don’t. He and Crowley had had something of a gentlemen’s agreement between them. A professional agreement. Even before the Arrangement. 

Has Crowley always loved him? It can’t be. Something must have changed. Crowley must have changed. Could it be that God has decided to forgive him? After all this time? 

Aziraphale feels both hope and dread at the thought. Hope because his friend might be saved from Hell’s clutches. Dread because he can’t imagine Crowley’s unhappiness at working under Heaven’s thumb again. He wouldn’t do it. Aziraphale can’t imagine it. Gabriel’s officious memos about the number of miracles, the types you were allowed to perform, the amount you were allowed to interfere or not. Crowley would hate it. Maybe more than he hated serving Satan. 

Aziraphale has to find out. Does Crowley know? Does he know that he loves? _Maybe not. He is a demon. But he was an angel. Surely he would remember the feeling of love. . ._

Crowley pulls the car up to the bookshop. It’s miraculously undamaged, although the city around it hovers in various stages of disrepair and ruin. Aziraphale turns to get out, and feels Crowley’s hand brush against his calf. Crowley is bent over, searching for something under the seat of the car. Aziraphale does not feel the same blast of love at the touch, but he has the very strange desire to press his leg into Crowley’s hand, like a dog nudging someone’s hand to ask for a pet. He clears his throat and pulls his leg towards the door, opening the handle. “Did you lose something?”

“Just rolled around a bit. . . got it!“ Crowley emerges, triumphant, holding a bottle in his hands. “Let’s go inside and celebrate bombing a Church and killing some halfwit Nazis all at the same time!” 

Aziraphale cannot imagine an angel ever saying those words. Crowley can’t have changed. 

* * *

  
  


The champagne has a poison label on the front, but it is very good, very bubbly, and has a very high alcohol content. Alcohol has been hard to come by, and Aziraphale’s corporation’s tolerance has lowered significantly. Two glasses in, combined with the brandy, and he’s feeling much better about the whole situation. The fuzz of the alcohol in his brain, combined with the familiarity of the routine (Crowley on the loveseat, he in his desk chair, the bottle between them on the table) lull him into what he knows in some part of his mind is a false sense of security. Everything has changed completely, but he can pretend that absolutely nothing has. 

“What were you doing in Champagne anyway?” 

Crowley smiles. “Asking questions the _weinfuhrer_ doesn’t like.” He sips his champagne. “The Nazis have stolen an awful lot of wine that I could have been drinking.”

“You went to France and fought Nazis because they took your alcohol?” 

“Not just that!” Crowley protests. “I had a mission, if you recall. Several missions in fact. One for Hell, one for the British government and one for you. Getting the champagne was just a . . . side project.” 

“Too bad you only got the one bottle,” Aziraphale says, holding up the champagne bottle to gauge how much is left. 

“Who says I only got one?” Crowlely snaps his fingers. Two more bottles appear next to it. “I got a whole case of them in the boot.” 

Aziraphale fills his glass with the last of the first bottle. “Why do they have poison labels on them?”

Crowley laughs low in his throat. Aziraphale feels something fluttery in his stomach at that noise. “I swapped the labels on at least 1000 bottles. Wonder how many Nazis will end up in Hell saying they’ll never drink again.” 

“Will Hell be upset that you’ve killed Nazis?” 

Crowley shrugs. “I doubt it. Abaddon’s been coming up with new tortures for some of these guys. I heard he’s eager to try them out. Now the Nazis . . . they will be upset when they find out that Anthony J. Crowley has tricked them again.” He chuckles, downs more champagne. 

“About that,” Aziraphale says. “Do you want me to call you Anthony now? Or is it just something for the humans?” 

“Whatever you like, angel.” He pops open the second bottle and pours himself a glass. “I needed to give SIS something more than Crowley.” He slides his sunglasses off and sets them on the table, leaning back into the cushions and putting his feet up. “It’s good to be home, even if home is a wrecked shell of a city.” 

His ease makes Aziraphale brave. He doesn’t want to tell Crowley what he’s thinking, what he’s been feeling, and wondering. He very clearly remembers Crowley’s panic-stricken face at their first meeting. _I can’t be nice. It’s not allowed._ Aziraphale imagines that love is not allowed, either. Not without consequences from Hell. “Crowley, did anything . . . did anything strange happen while you were in France?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley snorts. “Loads of strange things happened. SIS had me doing some really weird things-”

“No, I mean . . . something . . . something ethereal.”

“Ethereal?”

“Or occult.”

Crowley frowns. “Are you asking if I was summoned by witches? Because the answer is no.” His eyes widen. “Did the Nazis try to summon you? Is that why you were so . . “ he waves his hand in the air, “at the Church?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. His vision swims a bit. This champagne is very strong. “No, no, I just . . . I just wondered.” He takes a deep breath, eyes roaming over Crowley. Time to try a different tactic. “I’ve missed you,” Aziraphale says. 

There’s a microburst of love in the air. Crowley grunts and says, “Shut it,” like he’s absolutely disgusted. But there’s that same feeling Aziraphale felt in the Church. Crowley takes a long drink of his champagne.

“Well, I have,” Aziraphale says, not embarrassed because he’s an angel, and he loves and Crowley knows he loves. It’s never been a question. “I have,” he repeats, and he tries to say everything with those two words that he's been unable to say for thousands of years. _I have missed you, and I have loved you, and I love you now in an entirely new way . . ._

Crowley looks at him over the rim of his champagne glass. “Careful, angel,” he says simply. “You don’t want to end up like me.” 

Aziraphale bites the inside of his lip to stop himself from bursting into tears. He nods. “Quite right.” 

_They can’t be forgiven, Aziraphale._

Aziraphale wonders if Crowley will forgive him for not realizing until now.


	11. 3004 BCE (Day 11: Love Token)

4004-3004 BCE

Aziraphale has been taking Crawly’s advice and not asking questions. He was reporting back to Heaven every few months, then every few years. Now only once a decade. No one seems to mind. He just stops in, casually walks around, looking at all the other angels. He sees Gabriel, gives him a short update on how things are going on Earth. 

Gabriel doesn’t have time to chat. He looks very bored by the updates, so Aziraphale tries to make them shorter and more exciting. When he mentions Cain murdering his brother, Gabriel yawns. When he talks about Cain’s sons, Gabriel nods and stares vaguely into the distance. 

In the past five hundred years, he’s called Aziraphale by the wrong name 57 times. Each time he laughs and says, ”Sorry these human bodies all look the same to me. I promise I’ll remember next time, Azra Fell.” He doesn’t remember. He even makes the same joke over and over. 

The 58th time Aziraphale cuts him off mid-sentence, his lips set in a tight line. He’s irritated. “I know, it’s hard to remember since all these human bodies look the same, but my name is Aziraphale, and I have been reporting to you for 500 years now.” 

Gabriel is suddenly deathly quiet. Aziraphale thinks he has offended Gabriel, but he reminds himself that Gabriel is an angel, a being of love, just like himself, not prone to irrational rages like the humans. He can’t tell if Gabriel looks angry or not, because he hasn’t spent enough time around angels to be able to tell unless they’re wearing a human corporation. The silence that surrounds Gabriel is absolute. An absence of sound, like the world’s been sucked away. Part of Aziraphale wants to cower. Part of him wants to smile gently and laugh to cover his unease. But another part of him is very, very stubborn, and very offended, and that part is winning. 

Aziraphale hears a chime and suddenly Gabriel stands before him, in a human corporation, completely naked. Gabriel makes a face, stretching all the muscles out. “Oh, it’s so gross in here,” he complains. He shakes his shoulders. “Wow, Azira . . . “ he trails off. 

“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale says, a little gentler now, because he _is_ a being of love. 

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says. He sticks out his tongue and shakes it a bit. “Wow it’s hard to get that out with this tiny mouth. I feel so constricted.” He looks at Aziraphale. “I can’t believe you’ve been in that body for 500 years already! It feels like you were just born yesterday.” 

Aziraphale did not know that joke when Crawly told it to him. He understands it now and is not amused. “Yes, well, it was 500 years ago.” 

Gabriel smiles. It looks a bit menacing. “That’s right! And you’ve done a great job! All those humans down there, alive, doing whatever it is they want. God is pleased, I’m sure.” 

Aziraphale softens a bit. “Oh. . . oh you think so? I haven’t heard from Her since . . . well, since just after Adam and Eve left the Garden,” he says. He purposefully avoids discussing the question God asked him. He hopes Gabriel won’t ask so he doesn’t have to think of a creative way to say “I gave it away.”

“I know so!” Gabriel says. He seems suddenly much more enthusiastic. “And I think you’ve done such a good job . . . you don’t really need to report in every ten years.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale has a suspicious feeling about this, but he stamps it down in the back of his mind. Gabriel is an angel, just like him. “Oh, you don’t think so?” 

“Nah,” Gabriel says. He shakes his head side to side, then his hands come up to stop it. “Wow, that makes me dizzy.”

“It . . . uh. . . takes some getting used to. The non verbal communication,” Aziraphale says helpfully.

“I guess so. Anyway, yeah, I think we could go maybe once a century? Things are going so well down there! Lots and lots of humans!” 

So Aziraphale leaves Heaven and comes back to Earth. And he reports back to Gabriel four more times. Each time Gabriel appears in a new corporation. It’s a bit disconcerting to see a new face every time he goes back. The reports continue on much as they did before, but Gabriel remembers his name every time now. Nothing much changes. Humans are born, they procreate, they die. Some die before they procreate. Accidents or disease. Aziraphale feels bad for the parents when this happens, but he does all he can to reassure them that God is kind, and loving, and She will take care of them after. He feels the glow of God’s love within him when he says this and knows it to be true. Everything is going fine, until . . . 

* * *

3004 BCE

Aziraphale watches Noah and his family load the animals on the Ark. He wrings his hands nervously. He’s a week back from his last meeting with Gabriel. He didn’t want to believe what Gabriel told him. He’d left Heaven in a state of shock. God couldn’t actually do this, could She? Kill everyone? It seems . . . wrong. Completely at odds with the feeling in his heart. With the love he feels burning within him. Love for Her people. 

He’s been on his own almost completely for a millenium. The humans have been nice enough to talk to, nice enough company. But he can’t tell them this. He needs to talk to someone. Someone who understands the larger picture. The other angels look at him in his human corporation with a slight sense of disgust. It’s not his fault he was issued one almost immediately, but it means that he’s an outcast. Gabriel stuffs himself into a new human corporation every time they speak. He still appears completely naked every time. Clothes seem to be a concept no one has explained to him. 

He needs to talk to someone about this. What should he do? Is this really God’s plan? Gabriel said it was. And he knows he shouldn’t ask questions. But his mind keeps circling back. Should he be doing something? If so, what? What can he do? He looks around him at the humans. Some of them laugh at Noah’s family. Some of them offer to help in exchange for passage. Others are packing up their families and leaving. He wants to talk to someone. Someone else who has the same immortal life span he does. Someone else who’s wondered what God was up to. Someone who . . . questions. 

There’s only one being Aziraphale knows who has ever questioned God. Well, one being he’s personally met. Aziraphale thinks about the link he planted between himself and Crawly and feels immediately guilty. A thousand years and he’s never once reached out. To be fair, Crawly hasn’t reached out to him. Although . . . he frets. That might be because he can’t use it. Aziraphale hadn’t really known what he was doing when he made the link. It might not work. He’d been so new at everything back then. 

He feels a cool wind blow. Storm clouds are gathering. He takes a deep breath. It’s now or never. 

He closes his eyes and thinks, _Crawly, are you busy? Could you . . . could we meet?_ He feels a tingle in the base of his spine. It’s slightly reassuring. That’s how he expected it would work. Now . . .

“Hello Aziraphale!” 

* * *

The rain starts as a spattering, then proceeds to a steady drizzle. Aziraphale looks over at Crawly. It rained the last time they met, too. “Do you still hate the rain?” Aziraphale asks, for want of better conversation. He’s not keen on bringing his wings out in front of all these mortals, but at the same time he’s not above making a small miracle to keep Crawly dry. He did come at Aziraphale’s behest, even if Aziraphale hadn’t quite been able to bring himself to ask the questions he’d had. Seeing Crawly had given him answers, though. It was up to God. Her will, Her plan, The Ineffable Plan. Just being in the position of defending God to Crawly had helped his conviction, helped put him back on the right path. Somewhat. 

Crawly shrugs. “Not so bad now. Gotten used to it. Though I can’t say I really care for the idea of drowning in rain.”

Aziraphale nods, his mouth set in a grim line. “I’m supposed to go on the Ark.” 

Crawly looks at him. “Is that an invitation?”

“Well . . .” Aziraphale trails off looking anywhere but at Crawly. “I did ask you to come.” 

“Summon me, you mean?” 

Aziraphale looks at him wide eyed and panicked. “No! Did I?” he asks, aghast. “That is not it at all what I meant to do . . . I . . . I . . .”

Crawly laughs. “Ha! I knew you didn’t know what you were doing back then!” 

Aziraphale feels confused and slightly ashamed. “I didn’t,” he admits. The rain is picking up. “Come inside, no one will notice you if you . . uhh. . . disguise yourself appropriately . . . and . . . I’d like to talk some more . . . if you’re not busy.” 

Crawly grins. He sticks his serpent tongue out. “Sure, angel.” His body goes boneless and shrinks into the form of a snake. He looks up at Aziraphale and hisses, slithering his way towards the Ark. 

Onboard, it’s utter chaos. Aziraphale does his best to make sure Crawly doesn’t get stepped on by any of the humans or animals. He sees the hoof of a cow come down near Crawly’s head and lurches forward, grabbing Crawly and lifting him up to cradle him against his chest. Crawly turns his head to face Aziraphale and hisses at him. “I’m sorry about this, but I won’t have your discorporation on my conscience,” he murmurs. 

Aziraphale finds space in the stall designated for the unicorns. He opens the wooden door and shoos the remaining unicorn out. He gives it a firm pat on its rump, and a wordless missive to _find your mate and come back quickly!_ The beast snorts and gallops through the ark. There are shouts of dismay and concern from Noah’s family, and cries from the animals that wish they had the same freedom. 

Inside the stall, he sets Crawly down lightly on the hay, doing his best to be as respectful as possible. Crawly hisses at him, and transforms back into his human corporation. “Piece of advice: don’t try that with a regular snake, or you’ll find yourself discorporated.”

Aziraphale nods. “Duly noted.”

“And don’t try it with me either, understand? Bloody angels and your bloody bleeding hearts. I’m not a pet.” 

“I would never imply such a thing,” Aziraphale says. Then, he looks sidelong at Crawly. “Even though you did come when called.” He holds Crawly’s gaze for a moment and then he does something very strange . . . he starts to giggle. 

Crawly looks at him, speechless. “Are you-- are you making fun of me?” 

Aziraphale giggles harder. “I . . . I don’t . . . mean to . . .” He is full on laughing now, holding his belly. He leans against the side of the stall and slides to the ground. He feels a bit hysterical. 

Crawly’s lips twist into something that’s half smirk and half smile. “Did something happen to you? You get hit in the head in the last thousand years?” 

Aziraphale continues laughing and laughing and then without quite knowing how or why he’s suddenly sobbing. He’s crying and crying and he can’t stop crying. It feels like he’ll never get all the sadness out of him. He puts his face in his hands and sobs, big racking huge gasps of breath and tears. The world around him fades away to a dull gray roar. 

He’s not sure how long he sits there, face buried in his hands. But when he finally starts to compose himself and looks up, Crawly is still sitting across from him, but he’s got a jug of wine. He takes a sip and then holds it out to Aziraphale. “Have a drink. World doesn’t end all the time.” 

Aziraphale hesitates for only a fraction of a second before accepting the jug. He puts it up to his mouth and takes a long swallow. The wine tastes so bad he almost spits it out. “This is terrible wine, Crawly.” 

Crawly frowns. “Didn’t taste bad to me.” 

Aziraphale makes a disgusted face, then takes another cautious sip. He coughs, trying not to gag. “Did you miracle this up?”

Crawly holds his hands out. “How else do you get wine?”

“From a winemaker!” Aziraphale says. “Human food is a human creation. You can’t miracle it up, it always tastes awful.” 

“Do you eat a lot of human food?”

Aziraphale smiles. “Oh, yes,” he says with enthusiasm. “It’s quite good.” 

Crawly raises an eyebrow. “Does Heaven know you do that?”

Aziraphale frowns. “Why do you ask?”

“Just not the kind of thing I can picture Gabriel doing.” 

Aziraphale sighs. “No, he doesn’t quite understand the humans,” he admits. “I’ve been trying to explain it all to him, but, well, it’s slow going.” He looks at Crawly. “How about your lot?” 

Crawly shrugs. “I’ve had human food. It’s all right. Not really my thing. But I do love their alcohol.”

“And the rest of Hell?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, most of them have never even been topside.” He stops suddenly, his eyes focusing in on Aziraphale like lasers. “Was this your plan, angel? Throw me off guard and pump me for information?”

“No!” Aziraphale says, horrified. “No, I was just . . . curious.”

“You’re supposed to be guiding the humans and thwarting my evils.” 

“Well, you haven’t exactly been doing much evil where I could thwart it,” Aziraphale says snippily. “A thousand years since I’ve seen you.” 

“Yeah, well I’ve been doing plenty of evil things, you could have come to find me. You’re the one that planted that . . . that love token in me.” 

“Love token!” Aziraphale cries. 

“Whatever you want to call it,” Crawly says. “Your professional calling card that you turned on today.” 

“Look, I . . . I didn’t exactly know what I was doing back then,” Aziraphale admits. He sniffs, and miracles a handkerchief to blow his nose and dab at his eyes. “Guess I still don’t quite know, as much as I try.” He looks at Crawly’s jug of demon miracle wine. “Shem has better wine in the pantry.” He waves his hand and a second jug appears. Aziraphale uncorks it and hands it to Crawly. “Try this.” 

Crawly purses his lips, but brings the jug up to drink anyway. His eyes close, and a delightful expression comes over his features. He puts the jug down and looks at Aziraphale appraisingly. “That’s pretty good, angel.” 

Aziraphale smiles. “The humans really are very good at making wine.” 

Crawly takes another pull from the jug, then passes it to Aziraphale. “What did you do today-- when you called for me? I’ve never felt anything like it.”

Aziraphale takes a drink and leans forward, interested. “What was it like?”

Crawly gives a long pause while he thinks. Outside, the rain lashes against the Ark. “Not really sure how to describe it. Kind of like a pins and needles feeling. And then I just knew it was you, and you wanted to see me.” 

Aziraphale passes the jug of wine back to Crawly. “But you didn’t _have_ to come, did you?”

Crawly chuckles. “No, no. I could have ignored you if I wanted to.” He takes a pull from the wine jug.

“Why didn’t you ignore me?” 

He leans back against the opposite wall of the stall, resting his elbows on his knees. He takes another drink of wine. “It’s been a thousand years. Thought if you were trying to reach me it must be important.” 

Aziraphale reaches to take the wine jug from Crawly’s hand. Crawly holds fast to it. “What did you do to me back then, angel? Tell me.” 

He sits back against the wall. “I don’t quite know. I really don’t. Oh, Crawly, I was so naive then. I had all these powers and no one had trained me, I didn’t know how so many things worked. Do you know I tried to miracle up water for Eve when she was in the desert? It was before I’d ever had water, I had no idea what it felt like or tasted like. I made a beautiful mirage for her and Adam when they were nearly dying of thirst. It almost drove them mad.”

Crawly leans forward, interested. “So you just made a picture of it?”

“I did, and I thought that’s all there was to it. I had no idea how this all worked. I’ve got a much better understanding now of what I can and can’t use a miracle to create. But what I did to you . . . I’m not sure. Have you-- have you ever tried to contact me?”

Crawly shakes his head. “Nope. What do I need an angel for? Thwarting me?”

“You never even tried?” Aziraphale feels a bit hurt, even though he suspected as much. 

“Aziraphale, if . . . if my lot even knew I’d spoken to you, even once . . .” he trails off. “It’s not called Hell because it’s a nice place.” 

Aziraphale understands. “I can’t say Gabriel would be very happy if he knew that I’d talked to you. Although I’ve never asked--”

“Don’t ask,” Crawly says definitively. 

“I’m not going to!” Aziraphale protests. He pulls the jug from Crawly’s fingers roughly, and takes a very large gulp. As he does so, the ground shifts underneath them. Crawly tumbles forward, and ends up with his head in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale can feel the heat of Crawly’s body through his robes. His face is pressed to Aziraphale’s belly, his arms on either side of Aziraphale’s hips. 

Aziraphale looks down at him with wide eyes. “We’re moving,” he whispers. He sets the jug of wine down, gently pushing Crawly to the side. He goes to the door of the stall, opens it and stumbles out. 

“Aziraphale?’ Crawly calls after him. But Aziraphale is hurrying, down the row of stalls to the stairs. He takes them two at a time, hurrying to the deck of the ship. The rain is coming down hard and fast and it nearly knocks him to his knees. He’s soaked as soon as he leaves the shelter of the lower deck. He runs to the side of the ship, looking over the railing. Gray waters churn and swirl below. He searches the horizon, but there’s no sign of land anywhere in sight. _Oh, the unicorns_. . . he thinks. 

A hand grabs his arm roughly, and pulls him back towards the shelter of the lower deck. Crawly. 

“What the hell are you doing?” he yells over the pounding rain and the wailing wind. 

“The unicorns!” Aziraphale shouts. “I sent one off to retrieve the one that got loose.” A wave rocks the ship and they tumble to their knees. Aziraphale grabs onto Crawly’s forearms in an attempt to steady himself. “I told them to both come back.”

“They’re not coming back!” Crawly tries to stand, finds himself thrown back to his knees. “God sure has it out for humanity!”

The ship rolls and they slide across the deck, catching themselves on the railing. Aziraphale finds himself face to face with the churning waters far below. 

And then he sees the unicorns. 

They’re swimming. Two small white faces and golden horns poking out in the waves. 

“There they are!” Aziraphale almost screams. He points a trembling finger down in the water. He turns to look at Crawly, just in time to see the demon dive off the edge of the Ark and plunge into the water below. “Crawly!”

He clings to the deck railing, watching as a figure in black emerges next to the unicorn. A moment later Crawly is soaring through the air, black wings beating hard. He’s got his hands under the unicorn’s belly and is trying to get it to the deck. Aziraphale understands Crawly’s plan and pulls himself to his feet, his wings bursting out behind him. He drops over the side of the ship, soaring, beating his wings frantically, looking for that other golden horn among the waves. 

He circles for hours. He circles long after Crawly has installed the one unicorn back in its stall. He circles until Crawly comes up and grabs his arm and tells him to come back, that it’s no use. 

Below decks, they sit in the stall with the one remaining unicorn, drinking Shem’s wine. They’re on the second jug between them when Crawly gets a glint in his eye and says, “I’ve got an idea.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t think it’s going to work. He tries to talk Crawly out of it. He appeals to Crawly’s logic. He appeals to Crawly’s better sense. Finally he tells Crawly that it’s part of God’s plan to get rid of all the unicorns. Crawly laughs at him. “Then here I am, thwarting God’s plans!” he snarls. He grabs hold of the unicorn’s horn and snaps his fingers and they both disappear. 

A few hours later, Crawly reappears in the unicorn’s stall in the ark. He’s dripping wet and laughing maniacally. He grabs Aziraphale’s hand. “Come on deck with me, angel! Look how I’ve thwarted God’s will!” 

Aziraphale follows because he’s frightened and curious. He doesn’t follow because he’s hopeful. At least that’s what he tells himself. 

The storm has calmed to a steady drizzle. The waves still roll against the Ark furiously, but the wind has died down. Crawly opens his wings and beckons for Aziraphale to come with him. Aziraphale follows. Crawly circles down to the water, until his feet are almost touching it. 

“What am I looking at?” Aziraphale asks. 

A moment later a long horn juts through the surface of the water. It’s attached to a whale. 

Crawly laughs as a second whale rises from the depths. “That!” he cries. Aziraphale thinks he can hear joy in Crawly’s voice. “That is your unicorn!” 

Crawly flies in circles. “Take that, Ineffable Plan!” he shouts. 

Aziraphale can’t help himself. He smiles.


	12. May 13, 1986 (Day 12: Serenade)

May 13, 1986

It’s been a while since he and Aziraphale had been out on the town. After the concert, Crowley had expected a polite “Thank you” (or maybe a “Never again!”) and a request to be dropped off near the bookshop (but not at it, so Aziraphale could remove his disguise before entering). Instead, Aziraphale turned to him as they were exiting, put his mouth up close to Crowley’s ear and nearly yelled, “Can we go somewhere and have a drink? And maybe a snack?”

Crowley had had quite a few drinks at the concert, but he was always up for more. And for spending more time with Aziraphale. Aziraphale worried and fretted about them being seen out together. Gabriel had been talking about upping surveillance again, about miracle quotas and the like. Every time Aziraphale came back from one of his Heavenly check ins he was always much more paranoid for a few years. Heaven had also increased the number of check ins in the last couple centuries. Now it was every 10 years. And even worse, Gabriel had started showing up at the bookstore every once in a while-- “random inspections”. It made for a very paranoid Aziraphale and generally meant that their social encounters were limited affairs, much to Crowley’s chagrin. 

They are ensconced in a booth in the back of a small Indian restaurant that primarily does takeaway curries. The fluorescent light bothers Crowley tremendously so he snaps his fingers and the light above their table goes out. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Less light makes it harder for any passing ethereal being to see you,” he says. “Not that I particularly want to hide my work of art.” He watches Aziraphale squirm and tells himself he absolutely positively will not flirt with him again for the rest of the evening, no matter how good he looks. _You go too fast for me._ Message received. It’s been almost twenty years, but Crowley has patience. 

Aziraphale orders a mango lassi, rice pudding and gulab jamun. Crowley asks for chai. The owner, a heavyset Indian woman in her fifties, brings the drinks. Crowley lights the cheap, neglected candle that’s been sitting on the table unused since the restaurant opened. She looks askance at him and Aziraphale, an open question on her face. Crowley nods his head towards the candle and the broken light above their heads, even though he’s the one who put the light out. She goes away without comment. 

Sitting in the booth, candlelight between them, Crowley stupidly wants to reach for Aziraphale’s hand. _If only you were just a human I could take home with me,_ he thinks. No one would care. It’s easy to fall into that trap of a daydream, especially with Aziraphale dressed like this. The eyeliner looks magnificent on him. The jeans cling to his thighs, the rips showing teasing patches of creamy skin. Crowley wants to lick each one. Tongue his way through the shreds of fabric, and draw circles on Aziraphale’s skin. He thinks Aziraphale would be shocked at all the lascivious thoughts that go through his head whenever he’s within twenty feet of the angel. 

“Well, that was nice,” Aziraphale says pleasantly. 

Crowley lifts a corner of his mouth, incredulous. “You liked the concert?”

Aziraphale considers. “I liked . . . some of it.” 

Now that’s more of what he was expecting. “Some of it,” he nudges. He sips the chai. It’s a bit too sweet. 

“I could have done without all the people,” Aziraphale says honestly. “So many people all crammed in together. It was much too warm. I also could have done without the groping.”

Crowley nearly spits out his chai. “You were groped?!”

“You weren’t?”

Crowley’s eyebrows nearly reach his hairline, before he becomes suspicious. “Angel, please define groping for me.” 

“Oh, honestly,” Aziraphale says, irritated. “Just because I’m not up on all of the latest expressions doesn’t mean I don’t recognize words that have been around for centuries.”

“Cock tease,” Crowley says flatly. 

Aziraphale huffs. “I admit ignorance to that one. But I understand the difference between someone accidentally brushing by me and outright copping a feel.”

Crowley feels an unmistakable rush of blood to his nether regions upon hearing those words leave the angel’s lips. Would Aziraphale cop a feel? Ever? To him? He blows out a harsh breath to steady himself. “I’m sorry about that. Wasn’t my intention to get you all tarted up for abject human amusement.”

Aziraphale looks confused. “Why should you apologize? They have free will, if you recall. They can choose to behave in a civilized manner.”

“I get it, but I’m a demon, right? And I made you all… Tempting.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Did you ask the man behind us to unsubtly touch my rear three or four times? Or convince him it was wholly appropriate?” 

_It’s a very nice rear,_ Crowley thinks. _Especially in those jeans I’ve stuffed you into._ He says, “I get your point.” 

“Did anyone grope you?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley can hear tension in the angel’s voice. 

Crowley shakes his head. “If they did, I didn’t notice.” 

Aziraphale visibly relaxes. Crowley files away that information for future fantasies. His possessive angel. _Oh what would you have done if I said yes?_ Crowley imagines Aziraphale leaping to his defense against some imaginary assailant. It makes him unaccountably warm. His imagination has always been quite good, especially where Aziraphale was concerned. 

The restaurateur returns with Aziraphale’s desserts. She’s brought two spoons for the rice pudding, but Crowley sits back and takes a sip of his oversweet chai. Aziraphale is going to eat and watching his reactions fuels some of Crowley’s most vivid fantasies. When Aziraphale closes his eyes in bliss at the sweet sugar on his tongue, Crowley imagines that he’d look the same when Crowley sucks him off. When Aziraphale gives a small almost obscene moan of satisfaction, Crowley imagines him making that noise when Aziraphale’s cock slides into his wet pussy. When Aziraphale wiggles in his chair, Crowley imagines him making those same movements as Aziraphale impales himself on Crowley’s cock. 

Aziraphale does not disappoint. Crowley had heard the rice pudding here was sublime. His trousers are getting uncomfortably tight, but this is gold star fantasy fodder and he can’t look away. Fantasies are all he has . . . until Aziraphale catches up with him. Until Aziraphale is ready. Then they’ll just go off together and Heaven and Hell and God’s Ineffable Plan can just bugger off. 

Aziraphale catches him staring. Crowley raises an eyebrow. _Going to stop the show?_

“You’re a fan of this be bop band--” 

“Rock,” Crowley says automatically. 

Aziraphale continues like he hasn’t spoken. “What did you think? Was that a good performance? The rest of the crowd seemed to like it.”

Crowley grins. “I think it was phenomenal, but I like rock n’ roll and Queen is one of the best bands ever.” 

Aziraphale considers. “I liked the poetry quite a bit.” 

“The poetry? Do you mean the lyrics?” 

Aziraphale nods. “Yes. Brilliant poetry.” He pauses, considers Crowley. “You didn’t . . uhm. . . influence any of that, did you?” 

Crowley frowns. “What? No.”

“Only some of the lyrics, they . . . well, I thought you and the lead singer might know each other. Like Mick Jagger.” 

“I don’t go around drinking with the lead singers of all the best bands, Aziraphale.” He thinks back over the set list. “Which ones did you think I might have had a hand in?” he asks. “Bohemian Rhapsody? I assure you Beezelbub is not putting a devil aside for me.” 

Aziraphale spears a piece of gulab jamun with his fork. He brings it up to his lips, but doesn’t eat. _Cock tease,_ Crowley thinks. “There were several lines that really seemed like they fit you, I thought.” He puts the dessert in his mouth. A bit of honey has run down his fork onto his fingers. Crowley wants to reach out, take his hand and lick it off. Aziraphale puts his fork down and considers Crowley. Then he surprises the hell out of him and begins to sing softly. “I want to break free, I want to break free, oh how I want to break free . . God knows I want to break free.” 

“I never thought I would hear you singing Queen, angel.” 

Aziraphale scowls. He picks his fork back up and looks down at his dessert. “There’s no need to poke fun--” 

“Who said I was poking fun?” Aziraphale glances up at him. Crowley tilts his head down so he can catch Aziraphale’s eyes over the rim of his glasses. “Seriously, angel. Not poking fun. Just . . . surprised. You liked it and you remembered the lyrics and you can sing the melody!” 

“I have ears.” 

Aziraphale puts the last piece of gulab jamun in his mouth. Crowley pushes his glasses back up on his nose so Aziraphale can’t see him staring at the gold hoop that hangs in his left ear. Crowley thinks about how soft that earlobe was between his fingers when he’d clipped it on the angel earlier. He thinks about how much he’d like to nibble on that ear while he fucks Aziraphale senseless. He cannot seem to get his thoughts under control tonight. 

Crowley clears his throat. “So you think I’d like to break free? From who?”

Aziraphale says nothing, but tilts his head to the side as if Crowley has asked a very stupid question. Crowley supposes he has. He nods. “All right, I get it. But Freddie Mercury came up with that on his own.”

Aziraphale looks into his empty dessert bowl. “Then there was that one about living forever.” 

Crowley had gone very still next to Aziraphale in the crowd when that number came up. _There's no chance for us, It's all decided for us . . ._ “That one is a bit of a downer,” Crowley complains. “I’m not like that.” 

“Who waits forever anyway,” Aziraphale sings softly, sadly. He does not have a lovely singing voice, but Crowley doesn’t care about that. 

Crowley throws his hand across the table, brushes his knuckles against the back of Aziraphale’s hand gripping the glass of lassi. Aziraphale looks up at him sharply. “Hasn’t been that long,” Crowley says seriously. _I’ve loved you for 6000 years,_ he thinks. _I can wait 6000 more if necessary._

Aziraphale’s eyes look glassy in the candlelight. He opens his mouth to reply when the restaurant owner appears at their table. She raises an eyebrow at their hands touching, looking from one to the other. “We are closing now,” she says, “you gents will need to be off.” 

Aziraphale sits back, pulls his hand away from Crowley’s. He turns towards her, gives her a grateful smile. “Yes, of course. Thank you, the dessert was quite excellent.” He pulls aside his coat, begins to reach for a billfold that isn’t there. He looks down at his clothes and then back up at Crowley. “I’m afraid . . “ he begins. 

“Got it,” Crowley says. He stands suddenly, and drops a twenty pound note on the table. Then, because he knows he’s being rude, he adds another twenty pound note as an apology. Aziraphale smiles at him. 

Outside, most of the shops are closed. Only a few people on the street. It’s past two AM. 

“I think I’ll just walk back to the shop,” Aziraphale says. “It’s only a little ways and it’s a nice night.” 

“Let me walk you,” Crowley blurts. 

Aziraphale straightens his shoulders. “Crowley, you know--”

“Just part of the way.” 

“Crowley-”

“Look at you! You look like a proper hu-- uh, Queen fan. No one would think you’re actually a . . a . . . .a square!” 

“A what?” Aziraphale says, confused. “Is that like a cock tease?”

_You don’t know the half of it,_ Crowley thinks. But Aziraphale hasn’t told him no yet, so he starts to shake his hips and swing his arms side to side. “You don’t like crazy music,” he sings. He’s doing his best imitation of Freddie Mercury impersonating Elvis Presley. It’s awful. “You don't like rockin' bands, you just want to go to a movie show, and sit their holdin' hands . . . “

“Oh, from the show!” Aziraphale says, pleased. 

Crowley keeps singing. “You're so square, baby I don't care . . .” 

The lights in the restaurant behind them go off. The street lamp has burned out, and it’s very dark suddenly. Crowley is deeply aware of how alone they are, how close Aziraphale is to him. How good he looks in his borrowed clothes. His hands itch. He wants to grab the angel, press their bodies close, slide his hands into the sides of the tank top and press his fingers into the lush curves of Aziraphale’s back. Wants to slide his mouth across those pink lips and taste the leftover sweetness of dessert lingering there. Wants to take Aziraphale back to his flat, strip these clothes off him and spend his time exploring all the places he’s been dreaming of. 

But Aziraphale is shaking his head. And Crowley thinks, _too fast_. “Crowley, this . . . this was wonderful. I really enjoyed the concert and I’m glad you talked me into it. I wish . . .” he trails off. “I wish the evening didn’t have to end.” He takes a step forward, and Crowley holds his breath. Aziraphale reaches out a hand and tentatively hooks two of his fingers into Crowley’s. He gives them a squeeze. “Maybe next time we could go to a film,” he says. “Might be nice.” 

He gives Crowley’s hand a final squeeze and then sets off down the street in the direction of the bookshop. He doesn’t look back. 

Crowley turns towards the Bentley, begins to sing softly under his breath. “God knows I want to break free . . “ 


	13. August 10, 2003 (Day 13: Grand Gesture)

August 10, 2003, Soho, London

Crowley comes into the bookshop via the back entrance, as usual. Aziraphale hears the door open and senses the demon before he can speak. Even without the link between them, he could recognize Crowley just by his footsteps, by the way he closes and locks the door behind him (as if a lock would keep out either a demon or an angel). Aziraphale sits in his chair, coat and vest off, bow tie gone, collar undone, and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up in a concession to the oppressive heat that has engulfed the city. He had central air installed in the bookshop ages ago, and it does its best to cool the rooms, but it is the hottest year on record. And Gabriel gave him a stern talking to two years ago about using miracles to keep his corporation comfortable. _If it’s so bad down there, we can bring you back home for a while._ The way Gabriel said it made Aziraphale think this was a warning instead of an offer of assistance. 

The blinds are drawn to keep the heat out, the sign on the front of the door flipped to closed. The bookshop is dim, but not very cool. Aziraphale has plugged in a fan that is pointed directly at his body. 

“Honey, I’m home,” Crowley calls out in a terrible American accent. Aziraphale can hear him rustling a bag in the entranceway. He hopes the wine is still chilled. 

“Did you actually try to pass as an American with that accent?” Aziraphale questions. “You sound like you’re from that movie we watched about the young disabled man who goes to war.” 

Crowley is still fussing with something. Aziraphale hears the squeak of a cork. “That’s good! I was in the South over there. You are talking about _Forrest Gump_ , aren’t you?” Crowley confirms. 

Aziraphale thinks back. “I believe so. The one where he eats a box of chocolates on a bench.”

“Yep, that’s it. I’m doing great then! Tom Hanks _is_ an American.” There’s a small pop sound, and the sound of glasses tinkling. 

Aziraphale huffs. “You didn’t sound American at all! I’m surprised you weren’t arrested on sight.” 

“Don’t be so dramatic, angel. The Americans aren’t that paranoid, at least, not yet.” 

Crowley emerges into the back room, carrying two glasses of white wine. He stops in his tracks when he sees Aziraphale. Wine spills over the rim of the glass over his fingers. “Wow,” he says, finally. His voice is soft and low. “We are having a heat wave.” 

Aziraphale ducks his head to hide his discomfort at Crowley’s open compliment. He’s been allowing more and more of these small quips to go by unchallenged. He loves Crowley, and he knows that Crowley loves him. They have human corporations, human desires. It’s not that he isn’t interested in exploring that avenue of the affair as well. And Crowley knows it. Crowley also knows what Heaven and Hell would do to them if either side found out about their . . . relationship. More importantly, Aziraphale is an angel. It is his duty to follow Heaven’s rules-- both the written and unwritten ones. 

But it doesn’t mean he can’t look. As far as he knows they can’t read his mind yet, no matter how much external surveillance Gabriel brags about, so Aziraphale looks. He drinks in the sight of Crowley, with a thirst he didn’t know he possessed. Crowley’s hair is pulled up away from his neck in a short ponytail as a concession to the heat. He’s still wearing his trademark black trousers, but has only a black ribbed sleeveless undershirt on, jacket gone. His glasses are folded and hang on his undershirt. Aziraphale can see a hint of curly hair peeking there. Without the jacket, the exposed long line of his neck makes Crowley look strangely vulnerable. Oh, how he has missed this demon. 

Crowley gives a mock bow, raising his eyebrows at Aziraphale to let him know he’s been caught out looking. Then he comes forward and hands Aziraphale a small glass of white wine. He doesn’t let go when Aziraphale reaches for it, entangling their fingers slightly. “S’good to see you, too, angel.” It’s as close to an emotive greeting as Crowley gets. 

Aziraphale’s heartbeat flutters. “I thought you wouldn’t be back until October,” he says softly. “I’m glad things got wrapped up sooner. It’s been a long summer.” He runs the pad of his finger against Crowley’s knuckle gently, then pulls the glass away, breaking their contact. He clears his throat. “So, what have you brought?”

Crowley motions for him to drink up. “Something that I think you’ll like very much, and something that I hope you might like even more.” 

Aziraphale takes a sip, then sighs in satisfaction. “Oh, ice wine. Lovely.”

Crowley is watching him very carefully. “The ice wines in Ontario are phenomenal. I spent some time up North in the states, too. Hopped across the border to Canada.”

“Business or pleasure?” Aziraphale asks. He takes another sip of the lovely sweet chilled wine. 

“Bit of both,” Crowley says. He takes a sip of his own glass of wine and perches against the desk next to Aziraphale. “I had a few minor temptations to perform, and I had heard there’s wonderful wineries up there, so I took a drive, looking for something good to bring back for you.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s really lovely country up there, not a lot of people, lots of small little wineries, free tastings.” 

“It sounds delightful,” Aziraphale says, a soft smile on his face. 

“Come back with me.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “Back where?”

“To the States. Well, specifically New York State.” 

“Did something go wrong?” Aziraphale sets his wine down and leans towards Crowley. “Something go wrong with the temptation?”

Crowley tosses his head. “No, angel, that’s not-”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen as the implications sink in. “Do you want to _move_ there?” he asks, shocked. “To America?”

“What?” Crowley asks, looking confused. “No, no, I don’t want to move to bloody America. Angel, what I’m asking. . .” He pauses, looks at Aziraphale and then goes down on his knees before him. He puts an elbow on Aziraphale’s knee, looking up at him. Aziraphale is very aware of the proximity of their bodies and the intimacy of this act. His breath comes faster. “What I’m asking is . . . if you’ll come on holiday with me.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “Now?” he says. 

Crowley nods. “Now. I’ve got one last job to do, it’ll be very quick, and then we can just . . . enjoy the scenery.” 

“Together?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “I asked you to come on holiday with me, yes, I meant together. You and I. A cottage by the lake. Lots of pretty tree-lined roads and all the wine we can drink.” 

“A cottage.” Aziraphale’s imagination swells with the romance of it. He can picture a small cottage, just a few rooms. Cool breezes from a beautiful lake. Surrounded by trees and birds. Fresh air. He thinks about sitting on a porch swing at twilight with Crowley, drinking wine and laughing. It’s a beautiful, wonderful time. Crowley will set his wine glass down, twine his hands in Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale will lean into him and their shoulders will brush. Their heads lean towards each other-- 

While Aziraphale has been dreaming, Crowley has been talking. “Most of the places have all these little jams and jellies and such for you to try with the wine. It’s farm country around there, so a lot of it is homemade. You’ll love it. And antique shops. Loads of places with snuffboxes and old books. You might find some real treasures.” He’s looking up at Aziraphale expectantly. His elbow feels warm on Aziraphale’s knee. He smiles broadly and Aziraphale feels his heart clench. The demon is getting very excited now. He’s practically vibrating with the excitement of his plan. “We could stay for a month or two, just into the fall, before it gets cold. The apples will be ripening, the trees turning colors. I saw pictures in a brochure-”

“Crowley, I don’t think I can.”

Crowley stops dead. His face goes slack, the excitement draining away. He presses his lips into a thin line. “Why.” It’s not a question. Aziraphale is taken aback. 

“Because,” Aziraphale says simply. He raises and lowers his hands. “Because, Crowley, what if . . . what if there's a surprise inspection?”

“Sorry, you just missed it, just happened to be out, doing good miracles.” 

Aziraphale sighs. “You know that’s not how it works. They’ll wonder where I am. I’ll get another warning--” 

“They’re not going to have a surprise inspection so soon again, anyway. You last one was just before I left.” 

“Crowley, be serious. Think of all the miracles I’ll need to perform just to get myself there. All my things are here, I’d need to find someone to look after the shop-”

“I’ll do it.”

“What?”

“I’ll do all the miracles for you. Heaven will never know.”

Aziraphale sets his glass of wine down firmly on the desk. He purses his lips, and takes Crowley’s hand in his. “Crowley, you know how I feel about you, but-” 

“No!” Crowley shouts. He pushes away from Aziraphale, begins pacing back and forth. He runs his hand over his hair, pulls at his ponytail. “No, don’t do this.” 

“Crowley, what do you expect me to say?”

“Say yes!” He tosses his arms out to his side and then lets them fall down again. “Say yes, please, for once. I’m not asking you to walk up to Gabriel and tell him you’re in love with a bloody demon, but please be willing to take a chance. . . for me, for us!” 

Aziraphale goes a little pale at the words _in love with a demon._ He and Crowley have not ever used those words between them. He's not even sure Crowley could say _I love you_ without bursting into flames or being dragged back down to Hell for an extreme torture session. “Crowley, I take a chance every time you walk into this bookshop!” 

“Oh come off it, Aziraphale. You told me to go slow, and I’m going slow. I’m going so slow I may as well be going backwards. But you’re . . . you’re never going to be ready, are you?”

Shame burns hot through Aziraphale’s core. He suddenly can’t swallow. He feels like he’s choking. Choking on the truth. “Crowley this. . . this has to stop,” Aziraphale says. His voice wavers on the last word. “This . . . courting.” 

Crowley laughs cruelly. “No one says courting anymore, angel.”

“Regardless,” Aziraphale says. He pushes his feet into the floor, standing taller. The lump in his throat is still there, but he can feel the strength of his conviction now. This is right. This is what he should have done, all those years ago during the War when he realized that Crowley was in love with him. What he should have done the instant he realized who Crowley was back on the wall in the Garden. An angel and a demon. Opposite sides. This was never going to end well. “We can’t see each other like this anymore.”

Crowley has a stricken expression across his face. Aziraphale feels his stomach clench. He thinks he might vomit. “No, no, angel, Aziraphale, look, I’m sorry-“

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, you’re right. This was never going to work. I’m-- I’m _never_ going to be ready for us to be any more to each other than we are now, and this thing this-- us-- it’s _never_ going to work.”

Crowley takes a step towards him, putting his hands out in a placating gesture. “No, Aziraphale, please, please listen to me, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I pushed, I know you said I go too fast-”

“No, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sorry. I’m the one who . . . who gave you hope that this could work. That someday everything might . . . might work out. I hoped . . . “ He scowls. “I was a fool.” 

“No,” Crowley says. Aziraphale hears desperation in his voice, sees it in the wide-eyed and shaky way he stands before him. “It’s fine, look, it’s all fine. I’m sorry. I pushed too hard, it was a stupid idea, way too risky. Let’s just-- let’s sit and have a drink-” 

“No.”

“Please-”

“I said no,” Aziraphale shouts, his voice deep and angry. “I won’t have you killed. Not for me, not for this . . . this mistake.” 

Crowley stills, the please dying on his lips. He drops his hands to his sides. Aziraphale feels tears pricking at the edges of his eyes. 

“All right,” Crowley says softly. 

“Please go,” Aziraphale says. He struggles to keep his voice steady. He looks anywhere but at Crowley. He can’t bear to see the hurt written across his features. The tears are already falling by the time he hears Crowley slam the back door. No goodbye. Then he collapses onto the floor and sobs. 


	14. February 14, 2004 (Day 14: Be My Valentine)

February 14, 2004

Crowley hasn’t seen Aziraphale in six months. He’s gone longer without seeing the angel, he tells himself. It wasn’t so bad. A thousand years between the first time and the second time. It was fine, then. It’s not fine now. He’s lonely, and sad, but he hasn’t been back. Aziraphale told him to stay away. Aziraphale told him  _ never _ . So be it. 

Aziraphale hasn’t called out for him through the link they share, either, although Crowley has tried to look for Aziraphale several times. Not to talk, not really. Just . . . to know that Aziraphale is. . . okay. That he hasn’t gotten himself locked up in prison or in over his head with the wrong group of humans. He gets a sense of where the angel is every time, knows where to find him. Can feel him still here, on planet Earth, going about his business. Or Heaven’s business, whatever that is. Crowley thinks Aziraphale is probably keeping tabs on him through the link as well, although he doesn’t know for sure. He tells himself that he doesn’t care. Lying comes naturally for a demon. Aziraphale hasn’t asked him to take care of a miracle for him. Crowley has been doing all of his own temptations. 

It’s Valentine’s Day and he goes about London early in the evening, spreading ill will because he’s miserable and drunk and he can. He slept most of the day, got up to drink a lot of wine and yell at his plants. Everything on TV rambled on and on about Valentine’s Day. Stupid hearts. Stupid silphium seeds. Stupid humans. 

He never should have gone to Aziraphale back then. His greatest mistake. Confiding in an angel. Confiding in anyone. Thinking he still deserved any kindness, any love. That he might get it somewhere. God cast him out and when She took Her love, She took all the love you were ever going to get. How stupid could he be, to think that She might let him, one of the Fallen, have even a little happiness. He curses God and Heaven and Hell. 

He’s thinking about the silphium seeds and hearts and Aziraphale while he prowls the streets of London. Stupid fucking humans. It’s all their fault, anyway. He resolves to make as many humans miserable tonight as he can. He snaps his fingers over and over. Waiters spill drinks. Food prices go up exorbitantly. Expensive boxes of chocolates mysteriously bloom. Traffic jams pop up out of nowhere. Flowers wilt. He curses all the pink, white, and red hearts that decorate the storefronts.

The last time he and Aziraphale had had a falling out, he’d just gone to bed for forty-odd years. He sneers as he thinks of the word  _ fraternizing _ leaving the angel’s lips, and how it reminds him of the look of panic on Aziraphale’s face when Crowley had called him out and said  _ in love with a demon _ . 

_ Never. Mistake.  _

Crowley wanders into St. James’s Park. Behind him, cars honk, couples fight, flowers wilt. It’s not that cold out, but he hasn’t worn a heavier jacket because he desperately wants to feel numb inside and out. The numbness got him through the worst of times. He would just go to bed for a few years, or a few decades, but he learned how to dream over the last century and now his subconscious fills his nights with Aziraphale. 

Crowley decides to sit in front of the empty duck pond. He takes a flask from his coat pocket, and takes a long swig. A couple walks by slowly, arm in arm. Crowley has seen enough proposals to know what’s coming next. The woman gets down on one knee. The other woman takes a step back, hands coming up to her mouth. Typical stupid humans.  _ What did you think was going to happen?  _ He snaps his fingers and the ring slips out of the proposer’s fingers, falling to the ground. He watches them hunt around in the grass for it and sneers. So long white trousers. 

A man hurries by with a small box of red and white cards and three dozen roses. Crowley unties his shoelace with a snap and the man loses his footing. He puts his hands out to catch himself. The roses are crushed. The box of cards go flying and break open. Valentines and red envelopes scatter as a breeze picks up. The couple have found the ring by this time, and stop what they’re doing to help the man pick up his greeting cards. They’re smiling and exchanging pleasantries. The woman with the white trousers looks at herself and laughs, showing off her engagement ring. Crowley hates them all. 

The trio depart with calls of “Happy Valentine’s Day” and “Congratulations” to each other. Crowley finishes the alcohol in his flask and miracles up some more. Bartenders in nearby restaurants are suddenly pouring much weaker drinks. 

He is about to take another swig when a valentine blown by the wind hits him in the side of his face. He pulls it away from himself, looks at it. The front of the card says “Be My Valentine”. The cover has a large heart, with a small cherub in the corner with an arrow. Inside it says “My love is yours, today and always.” Stupid humans. What do they know about  _ always _ and  _ forever _ ? Their lives are only short little things, less than a century. They don’t know love. They don’t know the absolute absence of love. 

Crowley miracles up a thick black pen. He bends over the card and gives the cherub horns and a silly curly-que moustache. He draws some speech bubbles that say, “Did you use too many miracles today? I would never use a miracle for anything. I’m the archangel Gabriel and I’m a wanker.” He wonders if Aziraphale will smile when he sees it. The bastard. Crowley wonders if he’ll be forgiven if he gives Aziraphale a valentine. If he makes him laugh. Will Aziraphale ring him up? Ask him to come over? Ask him to do a quick miracle for him? 

He writes one sentence in it. “I know what you did with the silphium seed. I knew the whole time.”

He doesn’t sign the card. 

He doesn’t get a response. 

He doesn’t contact Aziraphale again for four years, and when he does, it’s because he’s just delivered the Anti-Christ. 


	15. May 28, 2015 (Day 15: Delicacies)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit material ahead.

May 28, 2015

Aziraphale knows this a situation that requires significant delicacy. He knows exactly how he would handle this situation with a human. _Oh my dear, how embarrassing. I do hope we can put this behind us and still be friends._ He knows how he would handle the situation if it had been anyone from Heaven. _This will help me understand the humans better. If I am to sway them from Hell’s grip, it’s become clear to me that I must understand all of their vices._ He is sure that this explanation would include some askance glances, but feels confident that masturbation does not break any explicit rules (at least, not yet), so it would work. 

What he does not know is how to explain this to Crowley. So he needs to tread cautiously. They can’t afford another . . . situation like what happened when Crowley asked him to go on holiday right now. The end of the world is coming and they need to work together if they are going to thwart Hell’s plans (they’re Heaven’s plans, too, but Aziraphale feels sure that Heaven wants to avoid destroying all the humans, too . . . at least that is what he tells himself). This means that Aziraphale’s gut instinct to avoid Crowley for at least a few months or possibly decades is not going to work. 

He has been practicing what he is going to say all night. In between wank sessions. To his complete dismay, masturbation has not seemed to cool his ardour. If anything, Crowley walking in on him has just increased his longing to touch and be touched. He had read about refractory periods and hoped his own would be quite a bit longer than 3-4 hours. He’s had to stop rehearsing his speech two more times deal with his erection and his fantasies of Crowley. What if Crowley had come into the room and actually touched him, instead of watching? How long _had_ Crowley been watching? Had he moaned Crowley’s name? What would it feel like to actually have Crowley touch him as he came? To tell him, _I love you,_ finally? What if he went to Crowley and Crowley demanded sexual congress as retribution? Aziraphale knows such a ridiculous situation is not even remotely likely, but that doesn’t stop his traitorous imagination which supplied him with thoughts of licking and sucking Crowley’s dripping pussy until Crowley was a moaning writhing mess and Aziraphale had almost shouted as he came. 

It’s getting toward dawn now. Aziraphale dresses himself carefully in his Brother Francis costume. He glues on the prosthetics with spirit gum and begins to put on his many layers of clothing. He looks askance at the bed and sighs. He’s not sure how to explain the appearance of the bed and the satin sheet miracle to Heaven in his next report, or how to explain his desire to change it back into a loveseat. It doesn’t fit neatly into any of the good checkboxes-- the ones for miracles that have been deemed by Gabriel as being: 

  1. Necessary
  2. Appropriate, and 
  3. Bringing the most glory to God. 



He’ll have to say it was for his own corporation’s comfort. The forms have gotten more and more specific over the years. The box that says “Corporation Comfort” is one that Aziraphale has had his hand slapped for using on many times in the past. He decides that he’ll just have a bed in his room from now on. Maybe he can buy some additional pillows with his wages from the Dowlings to make it more comfortable for reading. 

Aziraphale has gotten as far as pants, trousers, and button-down shirt when he feels a tingle in his spine and hears a sharp knock at the door. 

_Oh._

He opens the door and Crowley stands there in Nanny Asthoreth’s perfectly tailored suit, all sharp edges and crisp black lines. His face is immaculately made up, wine red lips and blush and eyeliner he can see behind the dark glasses. Aziraphale feels his breath leave him in a rush. 

Crowley inclines his head. “May I come in?” he asks. 

Aziraphale nods and stands aside. He shuts the door behind Crowley, then turns. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, and balls his hands into fists by his side. It’s easier to do this if he can’t see Crowley’s face. He begins to speak, and the words tumble out like a veritable geyser of information. 

“Crowley, I want to apologize, I am so sorry that I did not hear you come in, and I don’t want this to make things bad between us again. I know we need to work together if we’re going to stop this, and I do want to stop it, because I want more time with you. I just want you to know that that was the first time I had ever done that before, and if I had known you were there, I would have stopped immediately. I just thought it might help me, I’ve been having such trouble concentrating, but I thought I was alone. I have truly been enjoying our interactions and I have missed them-- I’ve missed you-- oh so much, and if we can just get through this, then we can be friends again.” He pauses to take a deep breath. “I do so want to be friends again, and I feel like we are getting there, and I think this plan of ours is really going to work out, and we’ll be able to save humanity. Young Warlock does seem like he’s just a regular child, neither good nor bad, I think it’s all going to be just fine in the end, I think we’ll succeed, and we can be friends again, like we were before . . . before everything that happened.” He’s not sure if he means before Crowley asked him to go on holiday or before he realized that Crowley was in love with him in the ruined Churchyard during the blitz. Or maybe, before he realized he'd created a soul bond between them. 

Aziraphale opens one eye to peak at Crowley. Crowley has removed his sunglasses. They dangle from the vee of his blouse, nestled between his small, high breasts. Aziraphale’s eyes can’t help but rest there, before he looks up at Crowley. 

Crowley catches him and shakes his head side to side in a tsk tsk manner. “You really are a bastard.” He crosses his arms over his chest, calling more attention to his cleavage with the motion. Aziraphale is pretty sure he’s done it on purpose. 

_Which one of us is the bastard?_ Aziraphale thinks. He says, “That was a heartfelt apology!” 

“I wasn’t talking about your apology, and you know it,” Crowley says. He uncrosses his arms and straightens his blouse. 

Aziraphale feigns ignorance. “What _are_ you talking about?”

“You know bloody well what I am talking about-- you were eyeing up my tits!” 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Well, you are putting them rather on display,” he says prissily. 

“That’s rich, coming from you!”

Aziraphale looks down at his corporation and back up at Crowley. “What on earth does that mean?”

“I mean, I’m not the one who had to ask for help retrieving a hoard of naked pictures from a Playboy photographer!” 

Aziraphale’s mouth drops open. “That was decades ago!” he huffs. 

“Seems like just yesterday to me,” Crowley retorts. He puts on a falsetto voice. “Ooh, Crowley, I’ve made a big mistake and took all my clothes off, and let some smarmy wanker take pictures of me, come help me!” 

Aziraphale’s eyes narrow. “That was not how it was at all and you know it!”

“Oh, that’s exactly how it was!” Crowley snarls. 

Aziraphale sniffs. “Perhaps _you’ve_ forgotten which one of us is the demon who wears pants that are so tight you have to miracle them on and off!” 

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten which one of us was having a wank and sent out a distress call to the other person through the soul bond!” 

“I didn’t--” he stops, aghast. “Did I?” 

Crowley sneers. “Do you want my mouth, angel? Do you want me to put my mouth on you?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks flame to hear the words of his fantasy puppeted in Crowley’s actual voice. “I didn’t know, that is . . . I didn’t realize you could hear me.” 

“Well, I could,” he says moodily. “Why do you think I showed up here?” He sighs heavily. “I thought you were . . .“ he drifts off. “I hoped.” He doesn’t say any more. He doesn’t need to. 

Aziraphale’s whole body seems hot. His knees feel weak, so he sits down on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that I. . . I mean . . .” Embarrassment engulfs him. 

Crowley purses his lips. “I realized that. When I opened the door.” Aziraphale puts his face in his hands. He can’t look at Crowley. It’s one thing to fantasize about him privately, it’s another to actually make him actively aware of it. “I should have left immediately.” There’s a long pause. Aziraphale feels the mattress underneath him shift as Crowley sits to his left. “Angel, what are we going to do?”

Aziraphale sighs. “I don’t know.” _I’m so desperate for you_ , he thinks. “Crowley, we can’t-”

“I know,” Crowley agrees. “We have to get through the end of the world first.” He doesn’t say what will happen after. Aziraphale isn’t sure what will happen after, if anything. He can’t imagine Heaven will suddenly let up on the rules they’ve enforced. But God can change things. She can help. Surely, if he can learn to love this demon, then there can be peace between Heaven and Hell? If he and Crowley can stop the Apocalypse, then there can be peace between the two sides. And humanity can survive. And maybe then he and Crowley can . . . can stop worrying. Maybe then they can be free. What Crowley has always wanted. 

Aziraphale sighs. “I’m so sorry, my friend.” 

All the fight has gone out of them. Aziraphale feels Crowley lace their fingers together. “Are we going to be friends? After all this?”

Aziraphale aches for Crowley. “Of course, my dear.” He squeezes Crowley’s hand. “Always.” He stands and reaches to pull on a vest that’s nonexistent. “Look, in the meantime, I’ll be more careful.” 

Crowley doesn’t stand. Aziraphale can see his fingers running up and down the rumpled sheets. “You’ve really never . . . I mean, that was the first time? In 6000 years?”

Aziraphale ducks his head. “I take it you are . . . more experienced.” 

“A bit, angel,” he drawls. “I am a demon, after all. Tempting people to lust and sin, that’s who I am.” He leans back on the bed, spreads his legs suggestively. “A right cock tease.” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Really.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “You’ve given me quite a bit of fantasy material, angel. Would you like me to return the favor?” His skirt begins to ride up. “I’d be happy to.” 

Aziraphale’s breath catches. His eyes bore into Crowley’s, glance down to his legs. 

“Just looking, angel,” Crowley says softly. He spreads his legs wider, one hand sliding up his thigh. “Has Heaven regulated your eyes, too?” 

Aziraphale’s lips purse. He’s suddenly furious . . . and aroused. “Has Hell regulated your heart?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow at him. They are playing a very delicate game with each other. One wrong move and the whole thing will explode in their faces. 

Crowley is, of course, the one brave enough to make the next move. He flutters one hand to his chest, removes the sunglasses from where they hang off his blouse. He tosses them to Aziraphale, who clumsily catches them. 

“Even if you don’t want some fantasy material, I think I do,” he says. “I want to lie here, where you were touching yourself. I want to slide myself around on these satin sheets where you came last night.” He unbuttons his jacket, tosses it aside, slips off his shoes. Aziraphale watches as he lays back on the bed. Crowley puts a hand up and begins to unbutton his blouse. Long fingers with dark red nailpolish flick at each small round black button, revealing more and more skin. At the last button, Crowley looks up to catch Aziraphale’s eyes. Then he takes his blouse off. A black and red lace bra engulfs his small breasts. Crowley puts the blouse aside, then turns his back to Aziraphale. “Help me out of this?” 

Aziraphale’s mouth is dry. He reaches out trembling fingers, slips the two hooks free, then steps back as if he’s been burned. 

Crowley turns back, peeling the bra down and off. His breasts are magnificent-- small and firm, rosy round nipples. Aziraphale looks and looks and looks. He watches as Crowley slides a hand down to pinch one nipple hard between his thumb and forefinger. Aziraphale thinks it would taste delicious beneath his tongue. Crowley’s head tilts back and he gives a soft moan. His other hand is sliding up, between his legs. Aziraphale is suddenly very concerned that Crowley is not going to take that skirt off, and he wants to see all of him, lying on this little bed in his small room. “Do you need help with your skirt?” he asks. His voice quavers a bit, but he sees Crowley stiffen. 

“Yes,” Crowley says. He hisses a little at the end of the word. “Please.” 

Crowley turns on the bed, so he’s on all fours, his posterior rising in the air. Aziraphale’s hands shake as he reaches for the zipper. His fingers grasp the edge of the skirt, brushing against Crowley’s lower back. Crowley’s skin feels hot against his fingers. Aziraphale uses his other hand to tug the zipper down and then pulls away so fast his back hits the opposite wall. Crowley shimmies out of the skirt. He’s wearing black thigh highs, a black lace garter belt, and no panties. Aziraphale can see red curls over his sex, remembers his fantasy of Crowley making him get down on his knees and use his tongue there. He feels a drop of precum escape his cock. 

Crowley arranges himself on the bed. He slides over Aziraphale’s satin sheets, letting the fabric touch all the parts of his skin. “You’re such a hedonist,” Crowley admonishes him. “Satin sheets . . . oh, these must have felt lovely against your arse, your cock.” 

Aziraphale’s breath is coming faster. “They are . . . very nice.” 

Crowley spreads his thighs wide. “I’m so wet already,” he moans. “Can you see me? See how wet I am?” 

Aziraphale bites his lip, trying not to make a sound. He nods. 

“Good, that’s good, angel.” Crowley spreads his legs even wider. One hand slides down his abdomen, over his mons. He puts two fingers to either side of his lips and strokes up and down. “I want you to see me.” His head falls back to the pillow. “Did you think about me like this when you were touching yourself last night?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale gasps. 

“Tell me what you thought about. What was I doing? What should I do?”

Aziraphale’s voice shakes. “Y- you were n- naked.” 

“Did I just suck you off? Or did you fuck me?” 

Aziraphale whimpers. 

“Or was it both? Did I suck you first and then you fucked my pussy?”

Aziraphale is achingly hard. He nods blindly. “Both, yes.” 

Crowley sits up straight on the bed, his hand still between his thighs, moving faster and faster. He holds Aziraphale’s gaze. “Touch yourself now,” Crowley says. “Please, come with me.” 

Aziraphale feels powerless to resist the request. His hands are at his fly, pushing down pants and trousers, and then his cock springs free. He licks his palm, more familiar now with what to do, how to touch himself. He takes his cock firmly in hand, stroking up and down, watching Crowley’s fingers twisting his nipple, sliding into the wet slick between his thighs. He can see Crowley’s clit, pink and proud. Crowley is circling it with two fingers. His hips are canting forward. Then he gives a long and low moan, and his body clenches. “Oh, yes, Aziraphale!” 

Aziraphale’s hand is steady and swift around his cock. “Ohh.” 

“Come,” Crowley says. “Come right now, do it!” 

“Yes!” he shouts. And Aziraphale is coming. Coming harder than he has all night. It feels like an explosion. He thinks he can see stars. He falls to his knees, gasping, shaking. 

When he comes back to himself a few moments, Crowley is sitting on the bed, now entirely dressed. His glasses are back on his face and he has a very satisfied smirk on his features. “Good job, angel.” He snaps his fingers, and Aziraphale finds himself fully dressed in his Brother Francis costume, sitting next to Crowley. He’s too shell shocked from what’s just happened to worry over Crowley using a miracle on him and what Heaven and Hell could discern from that. Crowley touches his hand. “Time for me to get Warlock up.” He leans over and kisses Aziraphale’s cheek, then rises from the bed. 

“I won’t mention this again if you won’t,” Crowley offers. “It can be . . . a fantasy. That we both had.” Aziraphale does not know what to say. He’s absolutely stunned. He nods mutely. 

“Do you think Heaven is going to forgive you?”

“F- Forgive me? For-” he makes a large gesture that encompasses the entire room. Everything that’s happened in these four walls in past sixteen hours. 

Crowley shakes his head and smirks. “Not for pulling one off, angel. For stopping their war against Hell.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Well, of course.” He shakes his head. “Of course, of course, they don’t want a war. We’re the good guys.” 

Crowley looks disappointed, but says nothing. 

Aziraphale stammers, “I mean, you’re a good-- you’re not--” He stops, bites his tongue gently and then begins again. “You don’t want a war, either.” 

“I don’t,” Crowley agrees. “We’ve been through countless wars, you and I. They’re boring and messy and everyone loses something in the end.” He opens the door to the room. “Don’t want to lose you.” 

Then he’s gone. 

Aziraphale’s head is spinning. He’s pretty sure that everything he has done is wrong. He wonders if there is forgiveness for angels. 


	16. 33 AD (Day 16: Flower)

33 AD, Corinth

A few months after Jesus has been resurrected, Aziraphale receives a message from Gabriel. The message asks him to return to Heaven for what Gabriel calls an “extended information session”. Aziraphale wants to ask how long an extended information session is, but he is not sure that’s wise. The memory of Jesus’s crucifixion is still fresh in his mind. He is not eager for something like that to happen to his own corporation. He had seen humans killed and tortured in the most horrific ways, but this was God’s own son. It had been horrifying to watch. He had been very glad for Crawly-- _Crowley_ \-- beside him. Afterwards, Crowley had put his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and pulled him away to a restaurant not too far away where the dolmeh were served warm and the wine was chilled.

Aziraphale frets over the message from Gabriel. What is an “extended information session” anyway? How long will he be off Earth? After what happened the last time Hell had recalled Crowley unexpectedly, Aziraphale wants to make sure the demon can find him if he needs him. Besides, it’s just common courtesy to let someone know you’re going away for a while. At least, if you’re leaving Earth. Finally, he reaches out through the link that they share, and feels his presence not too far away-- somewhere fairly close. He’s most likely still in Athenae, where he said he’d be going when he and Aziraphale had last parted. Aziraphale knows he could go see Crowley, but he feels it’s too much to appear in person, so he leaves a message with the woman who runs the inn where he’s staying. Then he begins to write a missive to give to the _cursus publicus._

_My dear Crowley,_

_I have been recalled by Gabriel for an extended information session. I will be back_

He stops. He’s not sure _when_ he will be back. And Crowley will be able to tell when he’s back, won’t he? By reaching out through their link. He is pretty sure he _will_ be back. He decides to go with that. 

_I will be back._

What else to say? That’s really it. This is the first time he has written to Crowley. He thinks about how to sign it. Decides on the professional:

_Yours,_

_Aziraphale_

He doesn’t have much else to wrap up on Earth. The thought makes him a bit sad. He leaves the inn, tells the proprietor that he thinks he’ll be gone for two weeks. He gives her a large amount of coin to keep hold of his collection of scrolls and codices.

Aziraphale wanders into the desert, draws the sigils in the sand to open the doorway to Heaven. He begins his ascent, and snaps his fingers as he does so. A breeze blows by, and the sigils are erased. 

In Heaven, he signs in at the front desk, which is deserted. It is eerily quiet. Not that angels are the loudest bunch, but Aziraphale is used to hearing footsteps, talk, laughter, singing. He walks through the empty halls. Gabriel’s office is deserted. Michael’s too. He can hear a soft buzzing noise, and it seems to be coming from somewhere above him. Upstairs? Even higher? 

Aziraphale wanders to the main spiral staircase. He’s never been here before. Every time he had passed by it, a golden rope had been drawn across. Now, the rope is nowhere to be found. He begins his ascent. The buzzing noise grows louder as he climbs from the blinding white of Heaven up into darkness. When he finally reaches the top of the staircase, it is almost pitch black, but he can definitely hear the murmur of the entire Heavenly Host. The “room” at the top of the stairs isn’t a room at all, but more like an outdoor auditorium. Angels are seated on stone benches all around. Down at the center of the auditorium, heavenly lights are dimmed to illuminate an empty stage. 

The whole situation reminds him very strongly of the Greek theaters he’d been in, and he has a pleasant reminisce about seeing the premiere of _Lysistrata_ with Crowley before he hears trumpets blaring. He quickly finds a seat on the edge of a row at the very back. He smiles at the angel he sits next to, but he can’t tell if ze smiles back. He always feels so out of place at gatherings with other angels. His lack of experience with them in their native forms becomes embarrassingly transparent. 

He doesn’t have much time to worry about it, because the stage lights have become much brighter and Gabriel walks onto the stage. He’s wearing a human corporation, but he’s manifested wings, and _oh-- thank goodness!_ Aziraphale smiles a bit. Gabriel is wearing clothes. A Roman toga, to be precise. _Finally!_ Aziraphale wonders if the clothes are here to stay. It’s always so disconcerting to give reports to someone wearing a naked corporation. 

Murmurs run through the crowd. Aziraphale hears snatches of conversation.

“They’re so ugly!”

“What has he done to his corporation? It looks all funny.” 

“I can’t believe we have to listen to him talk with that funny human mouth.” 

Apparently not everyone is as pleased as he is to see Gabriel in his current incarnation and state of dress. 

If Gabriel realizes the turmoil he’s caused with his appearance, he decides to ignore it. 

“Fellow members of the Heavenly Host! Thank you all for joining me here! Glory to God!”

“Glory to God in the highest!” Aziraphale finds himself calling back with the rest of the assembled mass. As much as he’s spent time on Earth, he is an angel. Trumpets blare and bells ring. Angels cheer and whoop with joy. 

Gabriel waits for the noise to die down before continuing. “Thank you all again,” he continues. “I know that it has been many years since we were all together. This room may be smaller than last time, but our love for God is larger than ever.”

Aziraphale cannot remember ever having a meeting like this. He wonders nervously if he missed a missive. 

“The last time we were here, it was with heavy hearts. But now we are here to rejoice together! Because we have a very special guest who has asked to speak with all of you. And our guest brings the Word of God to all of us. Please welcome the Son of God, Jesus H. Christ!” 

_What does the H stand for?_ Aziraphale wonders idly. Then he stops because he is in the presence of Jesus, resurrected and glorious. He can feel Jesus’s love within him, God’s love within him and it surrounds him and he’s smiling so hard his face hurts. There’s nothing but love and kindness, and peace and infinite care. 

Gabriel steps back, and Jesus walks forward. The lights around him blaze. He looks now the same as he did the last time Aziraphale saw him, but he is fully dressed in robes. There is no crown of thorns, no blood. His hands have no wounds. His face is not twisted in agony and despair, but now a soft smile rests on his face. Aziraphale feels tears come to his eyes. 

Jesus sits down on the stage. His voice, when he starts to speak, is soft, but Aziraphale can hear it as clearly as if he was sitting beside the man. “Peace be with you,” he says kindly. “ _I have brought teachings from God.”_

Then he begins to preach. 

Aziraphale listens intently. The tears in his eyes spill over as he hears the message. 

_Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy._

_Do to others what you want them to do to you. This is the meaning of the law of Moses and the teaching of the prophets._

_Love your enemies!_

_If a man owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off? And if he finds it, truly I tell you, he is happier about that one sheep than about the ninety-nine that did not wander off._

_With God all things are possible._

Aziraphale feels joy and excitement swell within him with each word. And _hope_. So much hope. He’s elated beyond all measure, weeping with happiness, with love. He cannot believe the words he’s hearing. All his instincts he hears mirrored back in Jesus’s teachings. _Mercy! Kindness! Love! Forgiveness! Hope! Peace!_

By the time Jesus finishes, Aziraphale feels like he’s positively glowing. He feels . . . heavenly. But Heavenly the way humans have always described it-- not a heaven that Aziraphale has ever been to. 

Gabriel takes the stage after Jesus leaves. He’s talking and talking, but Aziraphale is not listening because he’s so incredibly delighted with what he has heard before. His head is so full of Jesus’s love, his message of peace, that he can’t focus. Aziraphale has always worried somewhere deep in his soul that he might be punished for some of the things he has done on Earth. He has trusted his instincts, always felt deep inside that he’d done the right thing, but worried about how to explain it all away. Especially to Gabriel. But Jesus . . . Jesus’s message changes everything. God is merciful. God forgives. And if angels are to be God’s representatives . . . If he is supposed to help spread God’s message, God’s love . . 

All the ramifications are crashing down in his head. 

If mercy and forgiveness are possible, then that means that peace is possible. And peace . . . peace means . . . it means Crowley may not have to be so alone anymore. Aziraphale thinks of the look on the demon’s face that night two centuries ago. He thinks of the depths of Crowley’s sadness at the loss of the silphium. He thinks of the kindness Crowley showed to him on the Ark. He thinks of Crowley’s soul, that soul Aziraphale wasn’t sure he even had at first. He even thinks of his own panic, that night when he couldn’t find Crowley anywhere. 

He thinks of the kiss he’d planted on Crowley when they first met. The ‘love token’ as Crowley calls it. The bond he’d instilled because he’d been doing what God told him and following his instincts. 

Aziraphale is jolted from his reverie when there are angry shouts around him. The angels are arguing with one another. He’s completely bewildered. Gabriel is on stage with Michael. They are trying to calm everyone down, but they both look visibly shaken. 

Aziraphale looks at the cherub beside him. He leans close. “What’s going on?” he asks. 

The cherub’s man face looks at him. The cherub’s eyes burn green. The ox and the lion head are snarling at each other. “Did you not hear the message from the son of God, Principality?” ze challenges him. 

Aziraphale is confused. “Well, yes, I did. But-- but why is everyone so upset?”

The man face raises an eyebrow at him. “What is your name?” ze asks. The ox and lion heads have stopped snarling and are now turning suspicious eyes towards him. 

Aziraphale smiles weakly. “Oh, I . . . well, I mean, I understand, it all makes sense, I was just--”

“That’s not what I asked,” the cherub says. Zir’s voice is getting louder. 

“No, it’s not, I’m sorry, I meant only-- I was wondering . . . what you could be arguing about with yourself.” It’s not a lie, Aziraphale thinks stubbornly. Because he was actually wondering that, among other things. 

The cherub’s man face is like stone. Ze glowers at Aziraphale. “Foolish principality. Do you not know who I am?” 

He winces. “Well, actually, no. You see, I’m usually stationed on Earth-”

“Then you agree with this message from the Son of God? Does this make sense to you?”

“Well . . “ Aziraphale dithers. He is not sure what answer is the right one to give to this angry cherub. He shrugs his shoulders and smiles. “It does all sound very nice.” 

The man face huffs. The eagle face shrieks at him. “You would have Fallen for such a statement and been burned from the records of Heaven for such a thing in the past.” 

Aziraphale nods. “Yes, well, yes, I see.” Crowley’s voice rings in his head. _Don’t ask questions._

Aziraphale turns back to the stage, determinedly not looking at the cherub. He shrinks into himself. 

Gabriel and Michael are speaking to each other in soft voices so as not to be heard. Then Gabriel makes a hand gesture and the trumpets of Heaven sound again. The voices arguing dim but do not cease. Gabriel snarls and abandons his corporation. It crumples to the ground like a used rag. Aziraphale winces. 

“Heavenly Host!” Gabriel calls. In his true form he is much more intimidating. And much louder. His voice soars through the theater, the sound waves reverberating through the stone benches. Aziraphale shudders. Gabriel’s voice strikes fear in him. The angels are quiet. All is silent. 

“Thank you for your attention,” Gabriel says. “I understand that Jesus’s message has left us with many concerns. Maybe even questions!”

Aziraphale glances surreptitiously at the angels around him, purposefully avoiding the cherub. They are silent. They look. . . Resentful?

“Michael and I will have clarifications for you! We have entered a new era! Change is bound to be confusing— for the humans and for us! We want you to have the transparency you need to serve God and bring the greatest Glory to Her! But change will take time!”

He gives a few more platitudes assuring the rest of the Host that he and Michael sympathize with them, and that they will follow up with additional documentation that would detail the Great Plan in greater detail. Then he dismisses everyone as quickly as possible. 

Aziraphale pretends to be looking for someone to avoid the cherub. He can feel zir eagle eye watching him the whole time. As soon as the eye looks away, he hurries to the other side of the theater, taking an unfamiliar stairway down. 

**********

Aziraphale still feels hopeful when he leaves Heaven, but his joy is muted. Maybe he has misunderstood Jesus. He doesn’t think so. He feels the truth of Jesus’s words in that place inside him where God’s love dwells. But why would this be so upsetting to so many of his colleagues? Surely this new era is good news, isn’t it? 

Back on Earth, Aziraphale finds three months have passed. He goes back to the Inn where he was staying. The proprietor smiles at him. “I wasn’t sure you’d be back, Mr. Fell.”

Aziraphale smiles gently. “I was gone much longer than I intended.” 

“I had to let your room out,” she says. 

He nods sadly. “I’d expected as much.”

“But I did find a place to store your things.”

“Oh! Oh, really?” Aziraphale smiles. “My dear woman, bless you!”

She smiles back. “I had a bit of a windfall, you could say. Friend of yours passed through and gave me a good bit of coin . . . said you'd pay me the other half when you picked them up. I’ve been keeping them in the stable.”

Aziraphale's confusion only lasts a moment. Then he grins. “Oh that is so wonderful!” 

“I also have a message for you,” the proprietor says. She asks him to wait and retires to the back room. She comes back with a small scroll with a flower sticking out of it. "I don't know how long that flower's been blooming. I thought it would have died months ago." 

Aziraphale spreads the parchment flat on the bar. A red azalea bud falls out. 

_Aziraphale,_

_Don’t ask too many questions and find a better place to keep your scrolls. I’m sure they’re going to stink of horse manure for weeks. Maybe this will help with the smell._

_Crowley_

He closes his eyes and thinks about Jesus’s message. _Peace. Mercy. Forgiveness._

He sends Crowley another message. 

_Dear Crowley,_

_I have returned from Heaven. I have much to discuss with you. Please let me know where and when we might meet._

_Yours,_

_Aziraphale_

He doesn’t receive a reply. 


	17. 41 AD (Day 17: Pillow Talk)

Rome, 41 AD

Crowley hears Aziraphale sigh heavily next to him. The bed moves a little bit as the angel wiggles. “Is there anything special I am supposed to do?” 

They’re tucked away in Crowley’s bedroom in the domus he uses when he stays in Rome. Aziraphale still hasn’t found a permanent place for his scrolls and codices. When Aziraphale had complained that he had overeaten, Crowley had suggested that Aziraphale try sleeping. Aziraphale had admitted that he had transformed his bedroom into a reading room, and there was simply no room for a bed . . . or even company. Aziraphale had then all but invited himself over to Crowley’s place and asked with that bright smile and those wide blue eyes if Crowley could teach him how to sleep. Crowley thought at the time that Aziraphale would be rather good at temptations if he put his mind to it. He also thought about all the other things humans do that he’d like to teach Aziraphale. The things they do _before_ they go to sleep. 

Crowley rolls onto his side so he can face the angel. Moonlight streams through the bedroom windows. Aziraphale’s white blonde hair almost glows. It’s so beautiful and looks so delicately soft. Crowley wonders if Aziraphale would let him touch it. He can’t imagine the angel agreeing to it ten years ago, but something . . . something has changed. Maybe quite drastically. “You just go to sleep.” 

“But _how?_ ” 

It’s Crowley’s turn to sigh. “You just _do_.” He purses his lips, trying to think of how to define it. “Close your eyes.”

Aziraphale turns his head towards Crowley with a delighted expression on his face. “Oh, is it . . . Is it like meditation? I’ve done that before, it’s so peaceful and lovely.”

The light reflecting in Aziraphale’s eyes is breathtaking. Crowley softens his retort. “Kind of close, angel. But you’re unconscious.”

“Like fainting?”

“But fainting is done accidentally.” Aziraphale’s face is too close and too tempting. Crowley turns his head to the ceiling. “I really can’t believe you’ve never done this.”

Aziraphale huffs. “Well, I am supposed to watch over Humanity.” He turns his face to the ceiling as well. 

“Humanity is asleep! Unless you plan to just keep wandering the Earth everywhere the sun is up.” 

“Oh, not anymore,” he says. “I did that those first thousand years, it was very difficult. Made my reports to Gabriel very long.”

Crowley’s brows go together in horrified surprise, and he turns his head back to study the angel’s outline in bed beside him. “Are you telling me you circled the globe following the sun for _a thousand_ _years_?”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale says. He turns back to look at Crowley. ”Well,” he considers for a second, “maybe not the whole 1000 years. I spent a long time with Adam and Eve at first, but then I decided to do a little exploring, and once I found the Native Americans and the Australians, I realized that God had made more people and that I ought to look after them as well. It was dreadfully hard work. I only stopped because Gabriel said my reports were getting too long and that I should narrow my focus.” 

Crowley shouldn’t be surprised by any of this information. “After that, you deserve a nice long sleep,” he says truthfully. “Close your eyes.”

Aziraphale complies. Crowley takes the time to study his face in the moonlight. His lips look soft and inviting. Crowley wonders briefly if Aziraphale would respond if he just leaned over and . . .

“Is something else supposed to happen?”

Crowley thinks about kissing Aziraphale to shut him up now, but he is also convinced that their time together would be at an abrupt end if he did so. And he . . . doesn’t want that. He was in such a rotten mood when Aziraphale first approached him and now . . . it’s better. So much better. How can a bloody angel make a demon feel so much better? “Nothing is supposed to happen. That’s the point.”

“Nothing?” Aziraphale’s eyes open. “Then why do you do it?”

“It makes you feel . . . good . . . after.” Crowley says haltingly. He thinks about how he’s felt after his best sleeps. “The world seems new again, and anything seems possible.” 

Aziraphale smiles gently at him. Crowley turns his head to the ceiling again. This was a terrible idea. Why did he suggest the angel learn to sleep? What made him agree _to teach_ him? _You didn’t think Aziraphale would agree to lying in bed with you,_ he admits to himself. 

“You know, I was unconscious, once.” 

Crowley snorts. “It is not the same thing.”

“But you said you’re unconscious when you sleep.” 

Crowley struggles for words. “You are, but--” he pauses. “Tell me about the time you were unconscious.”

“Well, I assume I was unconscious, I have a big blank spot in my memory, I’m afraid.”

“Had you been drinking?” 

Aziraphale scowls. “Crowley!”

“I’m just asking.”

“I did not drink myself into a stupor! Someone robbed me!”

Crowley turns on his side to face Aziraphale on the bed. “Someone robbed you? How did that happen?”

Aziraphale clasps his hands over his belly. He refused Crowley’s offer of sleepwear and is instead fully dressed in his formal toga. Crowley had snapped himself into a short silk tunic when they entered the bedroom. The layers of his black toga had been boiling him alive in the summer heat.

“I was hit over the head! One moment I was leaving a restaurant after a sumptuous meal and the next thing I knew this old woman was bent over asking me if I was all right. I have no memory of what happened in between, but I assumed I was hit over the head and unconscious. My purse was gone. It was an awful experience.”

“You should have called to me. I’d come sort the bastards out. Scare them straight.”

Aziraphale blinks at him. “What a queer thing to say, Crowley. I have no idea who the man- or woman, I suppose, was who did it. And I wasn’t harmed, well, nothing a little miracle couldn’t fix. And I didn’t really need the money.”

“Yeah, but, assaulting innocent angels on the street, that’s-“

“I’m not innocent,” Aziraphale says defiantly. “I knew what I was doing there.” 

Crowley sputters. “You mean to tell me you were asking for someone to mug you? Was this some kind of _sting_ operation?”

“Obviously not. But I was in a very unseemly part of town, and by myself, and it was late at night. To a certain extent, I knew that I was walking into a dangerous situation.” 

“So because you put yourself in danger, you shouldn’t have the criminals who did it punished?” Crowley is outraged on his behalf. 

Aziraphale begins to quote, “ _Do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well._ ”

Crowley watches him with a puzzled expression. “Who the devil are you quoting?” 

“Jesus.”

“Well things turned out really well for him with that attitude, didn’t they?” he retorts. 

“Yes, I mean, no, oh . . . Crowley, I told you, I knew you weren’t really paying attention. He gave a lovely sermon at the extended information session in Heaven.” 

Crowley slides up on one elbow to look down at Aziraphale. “Is that why you’re . . .” he trails off, gesturing between them. “Taking a risk like this?” 

The angel rolls over and mimics his pose. “A risk like what?”

“You’re lying in a bed trying to sleep.” 

“I have laid down many times, although not with the intention of sleeping,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully. 

“You’re lying down in _my_ bed. With _me_.” 

“I told you, my room is full of scrolls! There’s nowhere to try to sleep.” 

Crowley rubs a hand over his forehead. “Angel.” He sucks in a deep breath. “Do you realize, if any of your lot saw you here, with me, like this, what would happen to you?” 

“But Crowley, those were in the old days!” Aziraphale says brightly. “That’s what’s so wonderful about Jesus’s message. I was telling you over dinner-- he wants us to be friends! Isn’t that lovely? He says we are to love our enemies!” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley sighs. “Aziraphale, I was in Heaven for only a very short period of time before my Fall, but I cannot believe that Gabriel or Michael told you to go out and love your enemies.” 

“But it doesn’t matter what Gabriel says.”

“Tell that to Gabriel.” 

“You don’t understand. Jesus brought a message to the whole Heavenly Host, Crowley. From God Herself! It was such a . . . such a wonderful message. Everything I’ve always felt inside validated.” 

Crowley had heard this story over dinner, even if he was distracted by trying to start a bar fight over a game of latrunculi at the time. As nice as it all sounds, he knows better. He purses his lips and rolls his eyes. “You and Jesus might be on the same page, but I doubt Gabriel sees things that way. When’s your next report due?” 

“I’m not sure, actually. Gabriel sent a message that said there will be a change in how I report, it’s coming in the clarification message I’m supposed to receive, but I haven’t seen any new forms yet or messages. We’re almost halfway through the century, so it’s coming up soon.” 

“All right, well, don’t put this in your report, all right?”

“But-”

“Look, even if you’re right and everything is so wonderful now, it is still not wonderful in Hell and I’d be in an awful lot of trouble if my side found out about this.” Crowley thinks about Axiemoine and a shudder goes through him.

“Are you cold? I could close the window.” Aziraphale starts to rise. Crowley grabs his toga, pulls him back down. When Aziraphale lands they’re closer together on the bed. Crowley can feel the heat from the angel’s body. 

“No, I’m not cold, just thinking. Listen, angel,” he says seriously. “You should think about what you’re going to put in that report very seriously. And I don’t think you should put in things about loving your enemies.” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale begins, but Crowley squeezes his arm. 

“I’m serious, Aziraphale. None of this sounds like the Heaven I was kicked out of. I can’t believe that everything has just suddenly turned on its head. You need to be _very, very_ careful.” 

Aziraphale pulls away. “I am careful!” he protests. “I’m very careful. No one has found out about our . . . link, for example.”

“Do you think your new best friend Jesus would approve?” 

Aziraphale pouts. “Honestly, Crowley, you’re just horrible sometimes.” He turns away from Crowley and crosses his arms over his chest. 

Crowley lays back down, facing the ceiling and grins in the darkness. “I am a demon.” 

“You certainly are wicked!” he sniffs. “And Jesus is not my new best friend.” 

There’s a long silence. Crowley feels very . . . pleased by that statement. He’s not sure what exactly he and Aziraphale are to each other. Best enemies? Theirs has never seemed like an acrimonious relationship. But friends . . . he’s not sure he’s allowed to have friends, let alone a _best_ friend. And he is pretty sure that best friends don’t fantasize about taking each other’s clothes off and fucking each other silly. Or being fucked. 4,000 years of pent up sexual frustration and Crowley doesn’t much care one way or the other, as long as Aziraphale is his partner. These thoughts are not helping to cool him down. 

He looks up at the ceiling. Aziraphale shifts on the bed. It rocks gently as he moves onto his back. A moment later Crowley feels the angel’s fingers curl into his own. They squeeze gently, then move away. Through the open window, Crowley can hear the distant strains of a lute at someone’s party. His fingers feel bereft. 

“What were we talking about before all this?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Can’t remember,” Crowley says flatly. All he can think about is he feel of Aziraphale’s hand in his own. Their shoulders are almost touching. Crowley can smell the angel beside him. When Aziraphale does leave, Crowley thinks he will put his face into that pillow and smell him and think about those glorious curves and come very hard. 

They are silent for a moment more, then Aziraphale says, “Unconsciousness!” with triumph in his voice. “Anyway, so yes, I have been unconscious before, and the mugging was not my own fault, but . . . a hazard of the job, I guess you could say. Maybe I was just too tempting a target.” Aziraphale giggles to himself. “I seem to be doing a lot of tempting, lately.” 

Crowley tries to stifle his chuckle, but finds he can’t. “Tempting me to oysters and being a target for a couple of lousy thieves does not actually count.” He smiles. “I don’t think you meant to do any tempting, you just . . . got caught up in things.” 

Aziraphale nods. “I suppose I was dressed better than everyone else.”

“You usually are,” Crowley says before his brain can tell his mouth to shut the fuck up immediately. 

Aziraphale does not seem to notice this inner torment. “Do you think so?” he asks, delighted. “I’ve always thought I had an eye for fashion.”

“Is that why you won’t take this kit off to sleep?” Crowley tugs at the sleeve of Aziraphale’s toga gently. When he thought about Aziraphale in his bed he thought about him wearing far fewer layers. And moaning. There was definitely a lot of moaning involved. 

“I told you, I am quite comfortable as I am.”

“What were you doing in an unseemly part of town, anyway?”

“Good. The same thing I do in seemly parts of town.” 

Crowley hums. “Not sure Gabriel would approve of that,” he says slowly. “Or of this.”

Beside him, Aziraphale shimmies a bit. “Well, he doesn’t know, and I don’t have to tell him. I won’t, because you asked.” 

Crowley closes his eyes. He is tired. Sleep sounds wonderful right about now. He’s nice and cool and he could just drift off right here, listening to Aziraphale’s breathing. He feels himself drifting off. Aziraphale’s voice breaks through. 

“Crowley, would you . . . would you come back, if you could?”

Crowley yawns. “Come back where?”

“To Heaven.”

His eyes snap open. Well he’s awake _now_. Crowley idly wonders if angels can suffer from madness, but he thinks that if circling the globe for a thousand years continuously didn’t do it to him, nothing will. “Are you daft? You don’t even want to be there, why would _I_ want to be there?” 

“Well, not specifically to Heaven, dear, I mean . . . I mean to my side.” 

Crowley can’t help it. His suspicions are raised. “Is that why you agreed to try this? Are you trying to _convert_ me?” 

Aziraphale flutters. “Oh, no, no, I was just wondering . . .”

“Well the answer is no.” 

“Oh.” There’s a heavy pause. Crowley can hear the gears in Aziraphale’s head turning. He grits his teeth. “Why?”

“Because Gabriel’s a wanker.” 

Aziraphale giggles. Crowley can feel the bed shake gently. “Oh my goodness . . . He is not my favorite being.” It’s as close to an insult as Crowley has ever heard the angel use. “But that would keep you from God’s love?”

“God is the one who rejected me, angel.”

“But if you could come back-”

“I wouldn’t,” he says, with a note of finality. “I wouldn’t ever come back. She cast me out. She is the one who told me to go.”

When Aziraphale speaks again, his voice is very quiet. “Would you . . . would you tell me about it?”

Crowley turns to look at him, and finds Aziraphale staring at him. They are almost nose to nose. He can smell the wine on the angel’s breath. “Why do you want to hear about that?”

Aziraphale’s hand covers his own again, clasps it tight. “Because I don’t understand,” he says simply. “I don’t understand why you would never come back to Her if you could.” 

Crowley turns away and stares at the ceiling again. “It’s not a nice story.” 

“I know,” he whispers. “Please, tell me anyway, dearest .” 

It’s the _dearest_ that gets him. Dearest what? Dearest enemy? Dearest friend? Or is it just another word to Aziraphale, like _yes_ or _wine_ or _please_? The word swirls in the place inside Crowley where God’s love used to dwell. The hole that cannot ever be filled again. _Could you fill me up, Aziraphale, Principality of Love, Guardian of the Eastern Gate? If God won’t have me back, would you bring Her to me? Is that what you’re trying to do?_

In the darkness and the moonlight, he tells Aziraphale the story. It’s a story of a mother’s unconditional love, the story of a rebellion, the story of a rejection. He tells Aziraphale about his questions, he tells Aziraphale about Lucifer and Michael, he tells Aziraphale about the vote in the theater of stars. When Crowley goes silent, Aziraphale brings their clasped hands up and kisses Crowley’s knuckle. So Crowley tells him about the burn of the wind as he fell, the numbness inside him, the chaos of Hell. 

By the end, he can feel Aziraphale’s shoulders shaking as he cries. Crowley’s tears long ago dried up. He can’t muster sorrow anymore. This is just the way things are. It’s ineffable. 

Crowley falls asleep with Aziraphale’s hand clasped tightly in his own. In the morning, the angel is gone. 


	18. 2008 AD (Day 18: Playful)

2008 AD - The Day After the Anti-Christ Was Delivered

“It’s not so bad, once you get used to it,” Crowley quips. A grin spreads across his face.

Aziraphale is utterly charmed by the sight of the demon’s smile and can’t help but smile back. He’s so delighted by the idea of being a godfather, and the sight of Crowley, and the sight of Crowley’s delighted smile, that it takes him a second to process the joke. Once he does, he scowls at Crowley, much to the demon’s apparent delight.

Crowley laughs. “Oh, lighten up, angel, it was just a joke,” he says. Crowley searches for his wine glass. “I’m just playing with you.” Glass in hand, he pours some of the wine they just drank into his glass. 

“You shouldn’t joke about such things Crowley,” Aziraphale says. 

“Look, if anyone can joke about being damned, it’s me.” Crowley waves his arm about, gesturing to his haphazard limbs sprawling everywhere on the couch. “Demon, me, damned for all eternity…. And really, angel, it’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

The words are out of Aziraphale’s mouth before he can stop them. “But if you weren’t…”

The end of the sentence hangs heavy between them. All the what-ifs and never-weres stretching out in the silence. Everything that could be, and couldn’t be.

Crowley stands suddenly. “It’s not worth thinking about.”

Aziraphale doesn’t like the way he’s been dismissed, but there’s nothing for it. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He bows his head, looking at the floor, anywhere but at his very best friend in this whole wonderful, wild world. The friend he hadn’t spoken to for five years before last night. He’d known their separation wouldn’t last forever. It never has for them. Even when Crowley was really angry, after Aziraphale had refused him the holy water, he’d only stayed away for forty-odd years. When things had been bad, when Aziraphale had needed Crowley, Crowley had come. That is how it would be for them, until, well, until the end of time, Aziraphale supposes. Which isn’t that far off. “Crowley,” he begins, but the demon cuts him off. 

“I’ll tell you what is worth thinking about, though.” Crowley raises one eyebrow at Aziraphale, and his eyes have a new sheen in them now. He brings the wine glass up to his mouth, lets his tongue rest gently against the glass before taking another sip. “Celebrations.” There’s a hiss in his voice. 

“We’ve already drunk quite a bit of wine.” Aziraphale eyes the glass in Crowley’s hand. “I can’t believe you’re going to re-drink it. It tastes like poorly reheated leftovers.” 

Crowley gives him an appraising look. “Have you been having a lot of poorly reheated leftovers? You do look a bit thinner than when I last saw you.” 

Aziraphale looks down at himself, then back up to Crowley. 

“Not that I’m really paying attention to your body,” Crowley says quickly. Aziraphale purses his lips and raises an eyebrow. He’d felt the tingle in the base of his spine that told him Crowley was near as he waited on the park bench at St. James’s. He’d felt it for a good ten minutes and wondered what the Heaven was taking him so long. He knows Crowley was looking. He’s not an idiot, and he does understand lust as the physical side of love. He was -- is, he supposes -- interested in that aspect of loving Crowley. But Heaven has very strict rules, and they are on _opposite sides_ , and he can’t disobey. He doesn’t want to Fall. Their entire friendship, the whole thing was doomed to begin with, and now, here they are, at the end of the world, trying this ridiculous scheme . . .

“You’re brooding, angel.” Crowley’s voice cuts through his reverie. 

“I’m not brooding.”

“You are, and it doesn’t look good on you.” 

Aziraphale huffs. “If we are going to work together, can you please stop flirting with me?”

“I’m just being playful.”

“You are _flirting_.”

Crowley purses his lips. “You think very highly of yourself.” He raises an eyebrow and drains his glass, pours another. 

Aziraphale glares at him. “You made it quite clear how you felt five years ago when you asked me to run away with you. And nothing has changed between now and then.” 

Crowley is silent. He picks up Aziraphale’s glass and waves it. “Are we going to drink and celebrate or are you going to brood?” 

Aziraphale does not want Crowley to leave, and does not want to ruin this fragile peace they have, so he takes the glass. He opens a fresh bottle and pours. Crowley leans over quickly and taps their glasses together. “To working together.” 

“To working together,” Aziraphale agrees. They both drink. 

“Anyway, you are looking a bit thin,” Crowley says. 

“Will you _please-_ ”

“Just interested . . . it’s been five years, and in the other six thousand I’ve known you, you’ve never really made any minor adjustments like this to your corporation. Figured you must have a good reason for it.” 

Aziraphale swallows. “Actually, I . . . I’ve been eating a bit less.” 

“Did you get food poisoning again?”

“No, not that.” Aziraphale sighs. “There’ve been new mandates from Gabriel.” 

“Oh?”

“Yes, apparently we are supposed to be keeping our corporations in superior shape.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows make a run for his hairline. “Superior to who?”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “I don’t know. It just says ‘superior’. You know how incredibly vague these things from Gabriel are.” 

He nods. “I know.” 

Now that the topic has been broached, Aziraphale can feel the dam breaking. “Do you know he chided me for eating sushi?” 

“What?”

“Yes. Popped in out of nowhere in the middle of my favorite sushi restaurant and told me he didn’t dare sully himself by eating.”

“Sanctimonious bastard.”

“He’s so uncouth. He has no idea how to blend in with the humans. I don’t think he even materialized in a private place, just showed up where anyone could see him!”

“Did he have clothes on this time?”

Aziraphale nods, eager to gossip. “Do you know what he said to me? How he told me armageddon was coming? ‘Oh, Aziraphale, I like these clothes so much, pity they won’t be around much longer, since the world’s going to end.’ How do you like that?”

Crowley huffs. “Terrible.” He takes a drink from his glass. “So you miracled away a few pounds?”

Aziraphale sighs. “No, I didn’t want to waste my corporeal comfort miracles on that. I’ve been . . . dieting.” He stares into the middle distance, thinking of the quinoa and kale salad he’d had for dinner yesterday. “I do like some of the _diet_ foods I’ve tried. You know how much I like new cuisine. But, oh, how I have missed wine.” Aziraphale smiles as he takes a long drink of wine. He rolls the liquid around in his mouth, relishing the fruity notes, the hint of oak, the slight tang as he swallows. When he looks up, Crowley is staring at him. “What?”

Crowley clears his throat. “I have always thought that you have a superior shape, and I am not the only one.”

He purses his lips, perturbed. “Crowley, I said-”

“No, hear me out-- don’t you remember John Donne? He had some serious lust for you, angel. Do you know how long it took me to convince him you weren’t going to bed him and he should make a move on Elena? ” 

He blows out a breath. “Times have changed, and what was in fashion then-”

“What about Mick Jagger? That photographer, what was his name? Rick? Dick? Angel, they were going to make you a Playboy centerfold!” 

Aziraphale purses his lips. “I don’t think that is what Gabriel means by superior shape.”

“Well he should be more specific, shouldn’t he? What kind of vague nonsense is that?” He mimics, “ _Keep thyself in superior shape._ That could mean anything. Should you have miracled yourself into David Beckham? Or one of those blokes on the cover of a romance novel? What’s his name? Fabio?” 

Aziraphale giggles at the notion. “I don’t think my clothes would fit anymore. He’s very large.” 

“And then you’d have to miracle yourself some new clothes, too, wouldn’t you? And they can’t have you doing that. Oh no, how dare you use a miracle to make life easy for you. Just send you on with ill fitting clothes, or have you going about naked?”

“Oh, can’t do that,” Aziraphale says. He finishes his glass of wine, pours another. “Don’t you remember? That was one of those ones they sent back in the ‘60s.”

Crowley takes another large gulp of wine and points a finger at him. “Ohhh, I do remember that now. ‘Thou shouldst strive to never be naked’. Oh, I laughed about that one for weeks, thinking about you trying to get in and out of your clothes as fast as possible without using a miracle.” 

“It was not a laughing matter to me! I was miracling my clothes on and off for months until Gabriel came back and said it was more of a guideline than a rule. I think the paperwork drowned him.”

“He was probably the reason the rule was made up in the first place. Didn’t you tell me he used to appear in the buff every time you met him?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Yes. It was so disturbing.” He takes a drink. “Speaking of, you are looking well.”

“Who’s flirting now, angel?” Crowley raises an eyebrow suggestively. 

Aziraphale startles. “Oh. Oh, I didn’t mean-” he stops, looks at Crowley who is still raising his eyebrow up and down. He looks ridiculous and he knows it. “You wicked demon!” 

Crowley laughs until there are tears in his eyes. Aziraphale takes a drink, pretending to be cross with him, but oh, how he has missed the sound of Crowley’s laughter! He feels his heart beat in a way that it hasn’t for five long years. “You deserved that,” Crowley says. “You beautiful bastard, you really did.” 

Aziraphale considers. “I guess I did,” he admits. He relaxes, takes another drink of wine. “Although you must miracle those pants on and off. They are tighter than ever.” 

Crowley gives a pleased smile. “Nice of you to notice.” 

Aziraphale bites the inside of his mouth, wondering how far he can go. How far he will let himself go. “Have you been all right?” 

Crowley shrugs one shoulder. He finishes his wine. “I brought down the London mobile phone network yesterday before the antichrist arrived.” 

_That’s not an answer,_ Aziraphale thinks. But he lets it go. “I have missed this.” 

“Missed hearing about my evil deeds?” 

“Oh, honestly, you _know_ what I am trying to say,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley snorts. “Actually, no, I really don’t. It’s been five years, and not even a phone call, so I don’t know exactly what you have and haven’t missed, you’ll have to spell that out for me. I’m a demon, remember? Not exactly known for our great understanding of feelings.” His mouth twists in a cruel smile. 

Aziraphale swallows. “I suppose I deserve that.” He looks down at his wine. “It’s very late.”

“You don’t sleep.” 

“But you do.” 

Crowly sets his wine glass down on the side table with a thunk. Some wine spills over the rim. “Right then, I’ll be off. Give you a ring in a couple of years when I’ve got an idea of how we’re going to get close to him.“ He stands and heads towards the door. The _front_ door! 

Aziraphale can’t help the note of panic in his voice. He stands and takes a few steps forward, chasing after him. “Crowley, are you leaving? Shouldn’t you go out the back-”

“I came in the front door, angel, you do remember that?” Crowley asks. “ _Get thee behind me, foul fiend_.” His voice is tight. Aziraphale recognizes that tone of voice. It has the same edge of steel that his voice did when he said _You’re never going to be ready, are you?_

“I didn’t mean it like that, I was just . . . being playful,” Aziraphale says, using one of Crowley’s phrases back at him. 

“If you’re so concerned about us being seen together, why walk us through the _front_ door to begin with? I followed _you_ , if you remember.” 

Aziraphale sighs. “I thought that the world was ending.” 

Crowley steps forward, crowding into Aziraphale’s space until they are just inches apart. Aziraphale can feel the heat from his body through all the layers between them. “So we’re only friends if the world is ending? And if it’s not, then what, we’re enemies? _Hereditary enemies_?” 

This is all going very wrong and Aziraphale wishes he could fix it but he has no idea how. “No, no, I mean- that is- I want for us to be friends.”

“I’m a demon. I’m not supposed to have friends,” Crowley spits. 

Aziraphale feels his stomach clench. “I know,” he says. He looks down at the floor. “I know, you’re not supposed to.”

“But I take a risk,” he says levelly. “And I do it _for you._ ” Aziraphale looks up, catching Crowley’s gaze. The demon leans closer. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s breath on his face. _Is this it?_ he thinks. Is this the moment when Crowley finally kisses him? Instead, Crowley puts his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, stares deep into his eyes and says, “And if this is the end of the world, then these are the last years I have with you. And being with you is worth more to me than anything else.” 

_I love you,_ Aziraphale thinks, at the same time that he feels a rush of love from Crowley crash into him. He can’t help himself. He reaches out and puts his arms around Crowley. “Darling,” he whispers. He feels Crowley’s arms return the embrace, and then they're crushing each other tightly, like they can't get close enough. “Darling, I’m so sorry.”

Aziraphale cries. Crowley lets him. 


	19. February 13, 2016 (Day 19: Candy Hearts)

February 13, 2016

“I’ve needed this night away for so long, Nanny,” Harriet confesses. She touches Crowley’s shoulder very kindly. “Thank you and Francis so much for agreeing to look after Warlock while I’m gone.”

“It’s no problem Mrs. Dowling,” Crowley says in his soft brogue. “I understand the challenges a mum goes through today. Every woman deserves to have a little time to herself.” Crowley means it. He hasn’t asked but is pretty sure the helicopter parent movement is one of Heaven’s inventions that went horribly, horribly wrong. Or maybe horribly right. It’s horrible either way. Crowley’s been around a long time and kids are better when they’re causing trouble. It makes his job a lot easier. Kids also like to ask questions, so he feels like each of them is a little version of him making trouble by asking adults to rethink what they _know._

“Thaddeus was supposed to meet me in London, but he was detained in DC. I was going to cancel, but this just seemed like a good excuse to just-“

She’s delaying. Crowley takes her arm and ushers her towards the kitchen door. “No need for excuses, now,” Nanny says. “You deserve it and I hope you and the girls have a wonderful time. Have an extra drink for me, and make sure you don’t let your girls post any photos on Facebook for Mr. Dowling to be jealous of.”

Harriet chuckles and gives him a brilliant grin. “You are the best, Nanny. Sometimes I feel like you’re the mother I never had.” 

Crowley does not know what to say to this unexpected compliment, so he just smiles. “We’ll have a lovely night, just the three of us.”

Harriet picks up her overnight bag and slings it over her shoulder. She gives Nanny an appraising look. “You two make quite the odd couple.” She looks straight at Crowley’s glasses, trying to see Nanny’s strange eyes underneath. 

“Oh, now, Brother Francis and I are just friends.” It’s a line that has become increasingly used when the other house staff comment on how they spend quite a bit of time with each other while Warlock is out in the garden. 

“If you say so,” Mrs. Dowling says doubtfully. “He has quite the crush on you.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

Harriet raises an eyebrow. “Don’t go breaking any hearts, Nanny.” _If you knew the half of it,_ Crowley thinks. He’s not sure he could break Aziraphale’s heart. For as much as he’s a being of love, Aziraphale has never said those words to Crowley. Crowley has been on the verge of saying the words to Aziraphale, but he isn’t quite sure what will happen if he does. Will he burn in Hellfire? Will God smite him for daring to declare love to one of Her heavenly creatures? 

Crowley nods absently to Harriet and waves his hand. “Off with you now, Mrs. Dowling, shoo!”

Harriet gives him a wink and heads towards the car. Crowley closes the kitchen door after her, returning to the library where Brother Francis and Warlock are engaged in a game of Battleship. Brother Francis is losing. 

“Oh, young Warlock, that’s another one down! You're besting me at this game!” 

“It’s much better on the telly, Brother Francis.” He motions towards the XBOX and the giant TV hung over the fireplace. “The ships actually move there. And you can see the sailors jumping off into the ocean and getting eaten by sharks.”

Aziraphale sends a questioning glance to Crowley who almost imperceptibly shakes his head. _Not me, angel._

“That seems a bit violent. Wouldn’t it be better if they were rescued by the other sailors?”

Warlock frowns. “That doesn’t make any sense, they’re enemies.”

“Well, now, you know the good Lord wants us to love all of our friends on Earth.”

“Yeah, but not our enemies, right, Brother Francis?”

Aziraphale sputters. “Well, I think, uh, that is, Jesus said-“

“That’s enough theology for now, Brother,” Nanny says. Mrs. Dowling is a Christian because that’s how you get ahead in American politics, and as such, she takes Warlock to Church every Sunday, but Crowley just got Warlock to stop singing Jingle Bells a week or so ago. He does not want to be forced into another recitation of the Christmas story so soon. “Easter will be here soon enough, plenty of time to talk about Jesus then.”

Nanny makes a 'get up' motion. “Come on, Warlock, you need to chop the vegetables, then you can play some XBOX.” Crowley figures playing with knives is a suitable chore for the anti-Christ. “Brother Francis, I have a special package in my room for tonight. Can you please go get it?”

Aziraphale lifts himself from the carpet. “Certainly, Nanny. I’d be delighted to.” 

Crowley and Warlock go into the kitchen. Crowley slips an apron on over his head to protect his immaculate black skirt suit. He gives Warlock the sharpest vegetable knife he can find. He doesn’t worry that the boy will hurt himself- he is the anti-Christ after all. Crowley gives Warlock a large head of romaine from the garden and a cutting board and sets the boy to work making a Caesar salad on the island in the sleek modern kitchen. 

Warlock uses both hands to chop off the stem of the romaine. He buries the knife deep into the wooden cutting block. “What else is for dinner, Nanny?” 

Crowley smiles at the boy, reaches over and pulls the knife out, handing it back to him. “Oh, I think we’ll have a pizza, what do you think?”

“Are you going to make it?” 

“Of course.” By make, Crowley means he will miracle from the best pizza place in New York. He’s already called in a lunch order slated for pickup and is waiting for the notification on his phone that it’s ready. The order will disappear without ever being paid for. He’s orchestrated it to appear that Foodler is at fault. It's the beginning of the end for that app. 

“You make the best pizzas, Nanny.” 

“Of course I do,” he says surreptitiously. “And why?”

“Because Nanny is the best!” Warlock says excitedly. He tosses the knife in the air. “Wahoo Nanny!” 

Brother Francis chooses that moment to come bustling back in through the swinging kitchen door. The light glints off the blade as it flies through the air. Crowley grabs and catches the knife blade first before it lands on Aziraphale’s head. He feels the blade slice into his fingers. 

Aziraphale is preoccupied examining two gift bags, one with red and gold hearts, the other. . . _oh, Satan, help him._. . the other is cloth and black and covered in silver glitter hearts and is definitely _not_ what Crowley sent him up there to grab. How had Aziraphale even found it? He must have seen it sticking out from under the bed . . . “I saw two in your room and I wasn’t sure which one it was, so I just brought both down.” 

“Oh, Nanny, you’re bleeding!” Warlock says. 

“What?! How! Where!?” Aziraphale drops the bags, steps forward, and accidentally kicks the black bag across the room, shouting in alarm. He brings his fingers up to snap and Crowley uses his other hand to grab Aziraphale’s in an iron grip. 

“Just a cut, Brother,” he says tightly, glaring at the angel. He’s still holding the knife in his other hand. Blood is trickling down his wrist. He drops Aziraphale’s hand and then grabs the knife by the handle, moving quickly to the sink, turning the faucet on and jamming his hand underneath. He snaps the fingers on his other hand the blood stops running. 

“I threw the knife up in the air and Nanny caught it because it was going to land on your head, Brother Francis,” Warlock says. “Ohh, Nanny, are you going to be able to make pizza if you cut your hand off?”

Aziraphale looks bewildered. “Why were you throwing a knife! That’s not safe!”

Warlock is nonplussed. “Nanny says I have to learn to use all the weapons at my disposal so that when I’m leading an army I look like I know what I’m doing.” He comes over to the sink to look at Crowley’s hand. “Can you still make pizza if you’ve only got one hand, Nanny? Will you need a hook hand?”

“Yes, I’ll be able to make pizza,” Crowley says. “Look, see, already stopped bleeding.”

“I don’t want you to be hurt, Nanny,” the boy says seriously. “That would be awful if you died. No one makes pizza as good as you do.” He reaches up and clasps Crowley’s good hand. “I would be so sad.” 

Aziraphale takes a step forward and accidentally kicks the red gift bag, sending the contents scattering across the kitchen floor. 

“Candy!” Warlock exclaims excitedly. He drops Crowley’s hand, Nanny’s potential hook hand and/or death already forgotten in his excitement for sugar. Boxes of candy hearts and two small heart shaped chocolate boxes are strewn across the kitchen floor. Warlock picks up a box of the candy hearts and opens it immediately, then turns with wide eyes to Nanny. “Nanny, can I-”

“Absolutely.” Crowley shuts off the water and dries his hands on his apron. 

He grins and empties the box of hearts on the island. “That’s funny, this one says ‘Bite me’,” he says, then pops the candy in his mouth. He chews for a moment and then gags, running to the sink and spitting. “Ugh, Nanny that’s terrible.”

Crowley laughs. “Exactly! They’re rubbish, aren’t they? But stupid hu-- I mean, people, buy them every year because they think they should, eat them because they think they remember them being good, and then get upset about the waste of money and calories!” 

“They’re gross! Isn’t there any chocolate?”

“The chocolate is for after dinner,” Crowley says. “Why don’t you go play XBOX?” 

Warlock makes a dash for the door, knocking into Aziraphale, who is trying to pick up some of the boxes of heart candies. He doesn’t slow down but yells, “Sorry Brother Francis!” as he explodes through the swinging door. 

Crowley chuckles. “Well that was fun,” he says. 

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley from where he is crouched on the floor. One of his prosthetics is loose. Crowley surreptitiously miracles it back on. “Are you trying to actually make him really, truly evil?” Aziraphale hisses. 

“What? Nooo,” Crowley says. “How is candy going to make him evil? I’m just doing my job. You’re supposed to be the good influence. I’m the bad one. Here I am, doing bad.” 

“But letting him play with knives-”

“He’s not going to hurt himself!”

“No, he’s just going to accidentally discorporate me.” 

“No one accidentally discorporated you. Everything is fine. I’m the only one who was hurt.” He waves his healed hand in front of Aziraphale’s face to prove the point. 

Crowley’s phone buzzes on the counter. He turns to check the notification while Aziraphale follows the trail of candy boxes on his hands and knees. Crowley does not want to think about Aziraphale in that particular position right now, so he turns his back and looks out the window. Dusk is settling in. 

“Oh, you remembered!” Aziraphale gasps in delight, behind him. “Strawberry creme!” 

“After dinner,” Crowley says absentmindedly, his fingers flying over the screen of his phone. Foodler has sent him a notice that the pizza place is unusually busy and his food may not be ready on time. He googles the phone number, dials it, and puts on his best American accent. He sounds like he's from New Texas Jersey. “Hello, I was trying to order a pizza through Foodler and it says it won’t be ready?” He hears a strangled noise of surprise behind him. _Oh bollocks,_ he thinks. _The black bag._

Aziraphale is kneeling on the floor. In one hand he holds the black and silver bag. The bag that he was definitely _not_ supposed to pick up from Crowley’s room. In the other, he holds a very large vibrator. It’s long and thick and bright red. There are two ends, a long one for vaginal stimulation and a short one for clitoral stimulation. The tip of the shorter end is shaped like a heart. Aziraphale touches something and the apparatus begins vibrating in his hand. He drops it onto the floor like he’s been burned and it shuts off. Crowley can see a blush creeping up his neck. 

“Hello?” a voice says in his ear. 

He startles, then snaps, “What?” into the phone, forgetting to change his accent. Aziraphale looks up at him with wide eyes and Crowley makes a waving motion with his hand that he thinks very clearly means put that back where you found it. He clears his throat and does his American accent. “Yeah, I ordered a pizza for pickup. Is it ready yet?”

Aziraphale picks up the vibrator and starts carefully examining it, turning it over in his hands. Then he brings it to the sink. Crowley watches in disbelief as he picks up some dish soap and squirts it all over, then turns the water on and begins rubbing his hands up and down it, soaping the length in long sure strokes. 

“What’s the name?” the voice on the other end asks. 

“Ashtoreth,” Crowley whispers. 

“WHAT?” the voice asks. “Ya gotta speak up.”

“ASHTORETH!” Crowley shouts. 

Aziraphale turns towards him with his lips pursed, disapproving. He is still rubbing his hand up and down the vibrator in slow, distinct motions. Crowley feels his mouth go dry. He decided to wear panties today and they are suddenly absolutely soaked. 

“All right, hold on,” the American says in his ear. Crowley can hear the busy sounds of a New York pizza shop at lunchtime in the background. 

“What are you doing?” he whispers in a high pitched voice. 

Aziraphale looks up, startled. He looks down at the vibrator covered in soap and back up to Crowley and raises an eyebrow as if to say _Isn’t it obvious?_

Crowley rolls his eyes. “ _Why_ are you doing that?” 

Aziraphale points toward the vibrator and then points down . . . at himself? He’s definitely indicating the area around his crotch. He turns back to the sink.

Crowley blinks, slowly. Does he…? Is he really saying what Crowley _thinks_ he’s saying? That he wants to . . . that he wants _Crowley_ to . . .? A slow smile spreads across Crowley’s face. How very Aziraphale. The romantic sap. Waiting until Valentine’s Day. Well, Valentine’s Day weekend. He pulls his sunglasses off, sets them down on the kitchen island. He comes up behind Aziraphale and puts the hand not holding the phone around the angel’s waist. He presses the front of his body up against Aziraphale’s backside, feeling all those gentle curves against him. How he loves those curves, how he loves all of this brilliant, beautiful angel. Aziraphale goes still. Crowley leans his head down and presses a delicate kiss to the side of his throat. _I adore you,_ he thinks. His hand roams over the angel’s chest through all the layers of Brother Francis’s outfit. He can’t believe this is actually happening. He lets his tongue slip past his lips and gently licks a stripe up Aziraphale’s throat, until he comes up to his ear. _Oh, that ear._ He loves that ear. How he has wanted to touch that ear with his mouth. He opens his mouth and sucks on the angel’s earlobe, running his tongue over the soft flesh there, and then gently pressing his teeth in to nibble. 

“We got it!” a voice shouts in his ear. “Ashtoreth? Izzat Jewish?” 

Crowley pulls his mouth off Aziraphale’s earlobe. “No,” he says into the phone, his voice hoarse. “Thanks, be there in a tic.” 

“In a wha?”

Crowley tosses the phone on the island behind him, putting his other hand around Aziraphale’s middle. “Aziraphale,” he murmurs, planting kisses on the back of the angel’s neck. “Angel, I’ve waited for this . . .”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his voice thick. Crowley’s hand slides down Aziraphale’s front, trailing his hand over the small gentle swell of his belly, gliding down. Crowley feels a lump in his throat. He wants to say, _I love you._

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again. Crowley opens his mouth and draws circles on Aziraphale’s skin with his tongue. “Crowley, what are you doing?” he asks. 

Crowley freezes. He pulls back a fraction. “Uhm.” He feels like the floor has dropped out from under him and he’s falling, Falling, the world rushing up to meet him at a thousand miles an hour, the wind roaring in his ears. “Didn’t you-- didn’t you want--”

Aziraphale clears his throat, and turns, the vibrator in his hand. Crowley still hasn’t moved, and they’re pressed together in front of the kitchen sink. He can feel the length of Aziraphale’s erection against him. Aziraphale looks into his eyes. “I-- you know I- I thought-- I thought we agreed . . . in order to focus on our mission. . . “ 

Crowley blinks. “But you-- you were--” 

“Washing this,” he says softly. “I assume it’s . . . that I picked up the wrong package in your room.” He pushes the vibrator into Crowley’s chest. “It fell on the floor, I didn’t -- I mean, I would want it clean if . . . if it were me.” 

Crowley swallows. “Right, yeah, yeah . . . yeah, definitely want it clean.” He realizes that he and Aziraphale are still pressed against one another and takes a step back. He is so wet his knees feel weak. “I didn’t uhm. . . I didn’t mean for you to get that package. Thought it was. . . “

“I should have realized,” Aziraphale apologizes. 

Crowley turns his head away, finds the bag on the floor, and drops the vibrator inside. He does his best to make his face appear neutral and impassive. He will absolutely _not_ be embarrassed by this. Aziraphale knows how Crowley feels about him. He knows and he still maintains his distance, in some strange gambit to follow all the rules Heaven laid out for him when he knows that they don’t even make sense. So Crowley is not going to hide his feelings. He finished playing that game thirteen years ago. He’s not going to start again now. “It’s fine, it’s all right,” he says, his voice clipped. “You . . . you made a motion that I thought meant you wanted me to use this on you.” He waves the black bag back and forth. “Wasn’t my intention to force myself on you.” 

Aziraphale flutters. “Oh, my dear, no,” he says. “No, please, please I’m not upset. I just know that we need to . . . to stay on target, as it were. Once this is all over, there won’t be any more danger for us, I know it.” 

Crowley thinks there won’t be any more danger because they’re both going to be killed, but he doesn’t say that. Aziraphale smiles meekly at him, and takes the bag from his hands. “I’ll just go put this back in your room.” He hurries out. 

Crowley watches the door swing shut after him. He snaps his fingers and the pizza from New York appears on the counter. In the near darkness, he looks down at the conversation hearts on the counter. 

BE MINE

YOU ROCK

BFFS

I LOVE YOU

He snaps his fingers to complete the salad, and puts a slice of pizza on each plate. He looks at the candy hearts and decides to sprinkle a couple around the slices of pizza. Warlock will be disgusted. He picks up one that says I love you and thinks about putting it on Aziraphale’s plate. The angel knows. He can sense love, he’s told Crowley that before, he has to know how Crowley feels. 

“I love you,” he whispers to the empty kitchen, just to see if he can. 

Nothing happens. 


	20. 1 BCE (Day 20: Reservation Gone Wrong)

1 BCE

After a six month sojourn to and from Cyprus, Aziraphale returns to his rented rooms in Damascus. Upon his arrival, he receives two very good pieces of news. 

The first is that his scrolls and codices have been left intact by the lovely man who owns the property. He had fretted over leaving them in his rooms, but thought that, should the ship go down, he would most likely receive a new corporation, but the scrolls would be lost forever. He had therefore given a very large amount of money to the man who owned the property, used a miracle to impress upon the man that he should remain true to his word in all things, and then asked him to swear to God that he would not sell Aziraphale’s things. 

The second piece of good news is that he has received a message from Crawly asking if he’d like to get in touch. After Crawly had left Chang-An, Aziraphale had seen neither hide nor hair of the demon. He’d wondered after Crawly and had cautiously searched him out through the bond they shared, always being able to feel him-- sometimes it felt like he was halfway around the world, others like he was just a few towns over. But it felt too intimate to initiate contact on his own, for no reason other than wanting to know if Crawly was getting on all right. 

So the message from Crawly makes him smile and pick up a reed brush to respond. 

They communicate back and forth a few times, and finally agree to meet up in Nazareth, since Aziraphale’s next assignment required him to head South to Jerusalem and Crawly was supposed to head North to Cappadocia. Aziraphale delights in the serendipity of the Ineffable plan, and heads for Nazareth. 

Crawly’s last message had read “Arrived in Nazareth. Expect you’ll be here in about three days. I’m staying at the Inn on the western edge of town. Great wine. Let’s have lunch when you get here.” 

Aziraphale takes a room at the Inn on the northside of town, quickly unpacks his things, and then heads off to find Crawly. 

Approaching the Inn, Aziraphale feels a frisson of excitement. He’s very glad to be seeing Crawly. As a . . fellow professional. Crawly has an innate understanding of humans, and is also tasked with looking after them (albeit not in exactly the same way as Aziraphale). It’s just good to talk with someone on his own level, maybe trade a few tips and tricks between themselves. Aziraphale enters the Inn, goes to the bar, and orders a jug of wine. He doesn’t see Crawly in the nearly deserted Inn, so he takes the jug to a table in the back and pours himself a serving. He takes a fortifying gulp before reaching out with the link, just to see if he can get a sense of how far away Crawly might be . . . 

. . . and finding nothing. He swallows hard, coughing. He frowns. That’s odd. He’s always been able to find Crawly before. He closes his eyes, searches inside himself for that link, finds the tether within himself, and chases it to . . . nothing. In his mind’s eye it dangles like a cut rope over the edge of a cliff. The place where he should find Crawly he finds nothing. Just emptiness. Blank space. 

Aziraphale sets down his wine and asks the barmaid if there’s a tall thin man staying here with long red hair and strange yellow eyes. She nods and directs him to Crawly’s room upstairs. Aziraphale climbs the rickety stairs and knocks. No answer. He turns the handle and lets himself in. The room shows no signs of the demon. Aziraphale goes back downstairs. Crawly must be out doing evil.

He resumes his table and his drink, keeps his eyes fixed on the door, and reflects on his past as he waits. 

When he kissed Crawly back on the wall of Eden, he truly hadn’t known what he was doing. He was fresh off the boat, as they say, just barely a week old. He had spent almost no time in Heaven before he’d been launched down to Earth with his flaming sword. And then everything seemed to go wrong, and he wasn’t sure if he had done the right thing or the wrong thing, and he looked over and there was Crawly. Crawly, who was almost as confused as Aziraphale was about the whole endeavor in the Garden. Crawly, the first being who had made eye contact and had an actual conversation with him. He had been entranced by Crawly’s lovely red hair and golden eyes and they had shared a smile and a misunderstanding and an easy truce in the space of a half an hour. It was more companionship than he’d ever experienced before, and all he’d thought, with what he now realizes is extreme naivete, was: _I’d so like to see you again_ , before he’d reached over and made sure that would be not only possible, but easy. As easy as a thought. 

The Aziraphale who had stood on that garden wall had been brimming with the desire to just do good everywhere. He had no real understanding of how much power he actually had, or how to use it. He’d just blundered on, trusting himself because God told him to. He hadn’t even come up with the kiss on his own-- he had seen Adam and Eve kiss when parting, so it seemed like a good way of saying both _goodbye_ and _we’ll meet again_.

Aziraphale has a few glasses of wine and sits at the table in the back of the Inn, watching the sun begin to make its descent. He reaches out for Crawly, first only once an hour, then once a half hour, then once every fifteen minutes. Every time he traces a line that used to find a living being at the other end and finds instead only the complete absence of that being. 

Has Crawly managed to hide the link? Or break it? Is that why he wanted to meet? Is that why he sent Aziraphale a message by _cursus publicus_ instead of just doing what he did last time and hunting him down via their link? Is he hiding nearby, waiting to see what Aziraphale does? He purses his lips in dissatisfaction. That sounds like the kind of mischief Crawly might do. Aziraphale purses his lips, has another drink. He asks the Innkeeper for some food. He feels famished. 

He is three quarters of the way through his jug of wine when the lamb arrives. It smells wonderful, and he is just tucking in when he feels a presence in the room with him. He smiles to himself. _There you are, Crawly,_ he thinks, as he turns around . . . 

To find Gabriel standing only a few feet away. The smile drops from his face, replaced by a look of sheer panic and confusion. The shock of it all makes him drop his leg of lamb. It clatters to the plate. 

“Gabriel?!” Aziraphale asks, not believing his eyes. Gabriel is stuffed into a human corporation. He looks uncomfortable and awkward. His corporation is very tall, very muscular, with shoulder-level black hair. He’s dressed, thank Heaven, although his robes are a bit . . . odd looking. Very pristine-- a whiter white than white should ever be. They almost glow. Gabriel’s eyes roll around in his head like he’s having trouble figuring out how to use them. They are a most disturbing shade of violet. 

He finally seems to figure out how to focus them on Aziraphale. He curls his face into a menacing sneer. “Greetings to you, Aziraphale!” he practically shouts. 

Aziraphale cringes and he feels his whole body stiffen. “Hello Gabriel,” he says, in a normal tone of voice. He tries not to tremble. He has never seen Gabriel on Earth before. 

Gabriel’s eyes roll around some more. He takes a few jerky steps towards the table and almost collapses into the chair opposite Aziraphale. He is still sneering. 

“These legs take some getting used to! But I think I have the smiling down!” Gabriel shouts again. 

Aziraphale glances around the Inn. The innkeeper is staring at him, a question in her eyes. Aziraphale smiles at her and waves for another jug of wine. 

“Gabriel, you should try to lower the volume of your voice,” he says softly. 

“God is glorious and Her praises should be proclaimed loudly,” Gabriel shouts. 

Aziraphale winces against the onslaught, keeping his voice calm and level. “Yes, that’s true, but if you lower your volume it will help you blend in better.”

“Oh,” Gabriel says, his voice at a much more tolerable decibel. His face is still twisted into a horrible sneer. “I guess I don’t want to scare the humans away.”

Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief. “Yes,” he says gratefully. He reaches for his glass of wine.

“It’s so hard to get used to putting words out using this wet hole!” Gabriel complains. “I keep expecting to find I’ve caused an -GROSS, WHAT ARE YOU DOING!”

Aziraphale chokes on his wine. He coughs, his face going red. 

“Are you being possessed?” Gabriel asks. He turns his head to the right and to the left in jerky motions. “I thought I could smell evil here. Is it Satan? Do you need my help vanquishing the evil one!?”

Aziraphale coughs some more, shakes his head and holds up a hand. “No, no, I’m. . .” he coughs again “perfectly fine.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Satan is not here, Gabriel. I think you’re just smelling Cr- I mean, the uhm, the humans.” 

The innkeeper appears with the new jug of wine. She puts a glass down tentatively in front of Gabriel. He startles, and then examines the cup with interest. “Do you want something to eat, too?” she asks. 

Aziraphale rushes in to answer before Gabriel can open his mouth and make things any more difficult. “No, he’s fine just as he is, thank you, my dear.” She raises her eyebrows, but walks away without comment. Aziraphale breathes another sigh of relief. 

“Aziraphale, did you just put wine in your corporation’s talking hole?” 

Aziraphale blinks. “Well, yes, I did. It’s what the humans do.”

Gabriel’s face contorts into a strange expression that looks somewhere between confusion, shock and ecstasy. Aziraphale thinks that Gabriel might have better luck mastering human expressions if he spent a little more time looking in a mirror. “Gross!”

His lips press into a tight smile. “Well, I suppose it’s not for everyone.” He takes a sip of his wine, just because he can. “Unusual seeing you on Earth,” he says conversationally. 

Gabriel nods vigorously, then reaches his hands up to make his head stop moving. “Yeah, I got a special assignment from upstairs.”

Aziraphale is intrigued. “Oh?” He had not heard of God giving out any special assignments to anyone in . . . well, since she sent him down here with a flaming sword. “Did you get it directly from uhm-”

“Yep, from the Metatron.”

“I see.” _So that would be a no,_ he thinks, setting down his wine. “And you need my help with it?”

Gabriel gives a very disturbing laugh. It’s overloud and sounds like a cackle. He really needs a lot more practice blending in. “That’s funny. I’m an Archangel, Aziraphale. What help could a lowly Principality be to someone like me?” He throws a jerky arm over and smacks Aziraphale’s shoulder, nearly knocking him from his chair. 

“Gabriel, maybe you should hold off on the body language until you’ve mastered some of your corporation’s basics a little better,” he suggests. He rubs his shoulder and makes a mental note to miracle away the bruise later. 

Gabriel either pretends he hasn’t heard, or actually hasn’t. “Since I was down here and in the neighborhood, I thought I would stop by and see how you were doing, save you a trip up to Heaven.” 

Aziraphale wants to point out that he’s not due for another check in at the head office for fifty years by Gabriel’s scale, but decides not to mention it. “Well, here I am,” he says. He drinks more wine. 

“Exactly. _Here._ You _are_!” Gabriel says. “Not where I expected you would be. Weren’t you supposed to go to Jerusalem?” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, smiling nervously. “Yes, I am on my way there. I just stopped here to look for a . . . a friend.”

Gabriel makes another strange face. “You have a friend?” 

_Oh no,_ Aziraphale thinks. “Oh, well, uhh, yes?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but it does. 

“I don’t know of any other angels in the area,” Gabriel says, confusion evident in his voice. 

Aziraphale swallows nervously. His fingertips flutter delicately over his cup. 

“I mean, unless . . .Aziraphale, you didn’t-” Gabriel’s corporation’s eyes go wide. Wider than normal. They seem to be pulsing over the rim of his eye socket. Aziraphale pulls his cup of wine away, in case one of them pops out. “Did you make a _soul bond_ with a human?”

Aziraphale blinks. Hard. “A what?” Soul bond? 

“You can’t soul bond with humans. It’s strictly prohibited.” 

“Gabriel, I don’t even know what a soul bond is.”

Gabriel’s mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. He blinks three times and then brings a hand up and smacks the side of his own face. “Eugh, sorry about that. I forgot I have to use the tongue. And you don’t know what a soul bond is? How can you call yourself. . . ohhhhh!” He flashes that malicious grin again. “Oh, that’s because you’re new. I forget that you’re new.” 

“What is it?”

“You probably can’t even do it,” Gabriel says. He sounds much calmer now. “It was prohibited after the Fall, so I bet you aren’t even capable of it.” 

“Gabriel, will you please tell me what _it_ is!” 

Gabriel going quiet. Aziraphale hears that complete absence of sound again. Then Gabriel speaks and his voice seems to come from every direction at once. “It’s not allowed,” he says. His voice rings with authority. “You don’t need knowledge for knowledge’s sake, Principality.” 

Aziraphale feels himself trembling. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. “Right, quite right.” He looks down at the lamb on his plate, cold now in a rapidly solidifying pile of fat. “In any case, I don’t have a . . . a soul bond with a human.” 

Gabriel seems back to normal. The sounds of the rest of the world begin creeping back into Aziraphale’s hearing. Birds outside. The clink of cups behind the bar. Two patrons come bursting into the Inn, talking animatedly. Gabriel doesn’t notice any of it. He gives Aziraphale that bizarre sneer smile. “Big changes are coming for the Fallen ones, Aziraphale!” he says brightly. “I just brought great news to this human about it. God is going to have a son, and he’s going to be a half human.”

Aziraphale startles. “A son? On . . on Earth?” 

Gabriel nods. “I knew you would be excited. This is our time to vanquish all our enemies! God is sending Her son here and he is going to wipe out all of the humans’ evilness, as foretold by the human prophets! He’s going to slaughter all the evildoers! It’s going to be even better than the War of the Fallen!” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He has many, many questions. He can ask none of them. “Oh, that is interesting.”

“You betcha!” he says. “I can’t wait to swing my sword and cleave the evildoers in half, led to battle by God’s own son! Glory to God!” He raises his hand in the air and brings it down to bang on the table. Bits of lamb fly into Aziraphale’s lap. 

“Yes, glory to God,” Aziraphale says, a tad less enthusiastically. He’s seen war before. He is not sure what in Heaven's name Gabriel is so excited about. 

“I hope you have your flaming sword at the ready.”

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide. He nods. “Yes, it’s down here,” he says noncommittally. It’s true, it is down here. _Somewhere_. 

“Good soldier!” Gabriel stands suddenly. He knocks over the empty jug of wine and it crashes to the floor. “I have to go, I need to get out of this corporation. The clothes are making me itch all over.” He turns and walks jerkily to the door of the Inn and out into the evening. 

Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief. 

****

Back in his room, Aziraphale looks thoughtfully at the pile of scrolls in his room. Humans have so much knowledge, and they’re writing it all down, trying desperately to preserve it. To answer all the questions that have come before and pass it on to the future generation. 

Some of these humans have written prophecies down. And some of them have uncovered bits and pieces of angel lore, and written those down. If he can’t ask questions of Heaven, he can surely see what questions humans have asked, and what answers they have found. 

**** 

It’s three in the morning when Aziraphale feels a tingle in the base of his spine and hears a knock at the door to his room. He drops the codex he’s perusing and leaps to open the door. Crawly stands there, a half smile on his face. He stinks of brimstone, and his clothes are torn and ragged. There’s a long streak of soot across his temple. “Hello ang-”

He doesn’t get the rest of the word out because Aziraphale reaches out and clutches him very tightly. Crawly goes stock still, not moving. 

“Crawly!” Aziraphale says. He pulls away, suddenly shy. “Forgive me, I just-- well, I thought I had lost you.” 

Crawly blinks slowly, as if in a daze. “You _what_?”

Aziraphale pulls him inside and shuts the door. “I couldn’t find you. I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“Look, I’m sorry I stood you up-- I got unexpectedly recalled to Hell this afternoon, didn’t have time to leave a note--” 

“No, you don’t understand.” Aziraphale wrings his hands. “I don’t mean I couldn’t find you at your room at the Inn, I mean I couldn’t find you here.” He puts a hand to his chest. “When I looked here.” 

Crawly tilts his head, considers. “Well. I guess it only works on Earth, then. I didn’t get killed, angel. I wasn’t even discorporated. Just… sent downstairs to listen to a lot of nonsense and gossip.” 

Aziraphale opens his mouth to ask if it was about God’s son, but then remembers that they are on opposite sides. If Gabriel decided to drop by right now he’d no doubt smite Crawly where he stood. 

“You all right?” Crawly asks. “You look . . . not well.” 

He takes a deep breath. “Yes, fine, no problem, I am well.” Aziraphale is aware that he is talking too fast. “It was just . . . very disturbing. When I couldn’t find you.” He closes his eyes and looks within himself and . . . yes, there it is now. He traces the invisible rope from the base of his spine and finds the other end firmly attached to the demon in front of him. He feels his pulse slow and even out. He feels so much calmer now. When he opens his eyes, Crawly is studying him intently. 

“It’s all fine, angel,” he says slowly. “Didn’t think you were going to be rid of me that easy, were you? I have many more years of spreading around evil and winning souls for Hell.”

Aziraphale snorts. “And I have many more years of vanquishing you.” 

Crawly laughs. “Right then.” He snaps his finger and a jug of wine appears in his other hand. “Let’s have a drink.” 


	21. May 12, 1971 (Day 21: Devil with the Blue Dress On)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please note: there is some minor non-consensual activity (nothing really graphic and nothing between our star-crossed lovers), but I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable. If you'd like to skip this section, I'll give a sum up at the beginning of the next chapter, and then you can double back to read if you'd like.**

May 12, 1971

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale says. He wrings his hands again and sits on the bed, criss crossing his legs and recrossing his robe to ward off the chill coming in from the open window. “I tried to ask at the hotel desk, but they said they had no record of a Rick Farley. I’ve been calling up all the hotels in the area, but no one has a Rick Farley on record, so it must be a nickname or something. And yes, I asked for a Richard Farley, a Dick Farley, a Dickie Farley, a Rickie Farley, a Richie Farley, a-”

“I get the picture,” Crowley cuts him off. “So no Rick Farley, photographer of naked ladies staying at any local hotels. Maybe he lives here?”

“I don’t think so, he was an American, used a lot of strange euphemisms that I didn’t quite understand.” 

“All right, so that’s a distinguishing characteristic. Not many Americans in Saint-Tropez, I’d expect.” 

Aziraphale huffs. “You keep forgetting that Mick Jagger is getting married tomorrow, Crowley. The news was leaked to the press and there are hundreds of photographers here from all over the world.” 

“Do you remember the kind of camera he had?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale’s eyes light up. “Ooh, yes it was a black one.” Crowley sighs heavily. Aziraphale is confused. “What were you thinking to do?”

Crowley shrugs. “Well, if you had remembered something _helpful_ like the brand or the make or anything beside the bloody color, I could just miracle all those cameras to suddenly be put in a pile on the moon or something, but . . . ahh, nope, actually, can’t do that even if you did know what the Hell you were talking about. He might have removed the negatives.”

“What’s a negative?” Aziraphale asks. “It sounds evil.”

“Angel!” Crowley draws out the word and puts a hand to his forehead. “It’s the film, angel. The film in the camera. They call them negatives.” 

“Why-”

“Nope,” Crowley cuts him off. “Nope, when we get back to London you can buy all the books on photography and learn how all of that works, but we don’t have time for that right now. What about Bianca?”

Aziraphale says, “What about her?” 

“Rick got in touch with her. She must know what his real name is, or where to find him.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I asked Bianca, but she said she didn’t know, he was a friend of Mick’s. And I have been looking for Mick but I can’t find him anywhere. I asked Bianca to have Mick talk to me, but you saw the state she’s in-- it’s her wedding eve, she’s thinking about her future, not hunting down a photographer.” 

Crowley sits up. “All right, well, maybe I can find Mick. He does know me, sort of.” He snaps his fingers, and Crowley stands before Aziraphale in his female form, long red hair cascading in soft waves down his back. His black pajamas have transformed into an incredibly tight and low-cut sequined blue dress. The dress clings to his figure. A silver chain with a snake pendant hangs around his neck, deep between the vee of his breasts, and his bare feet are now encased in strappy heels. He looks stunning. “One rock star, on the eve of his wedding. If I had to guess, he’s at one of the local girly clubs drinking himself stupid and redoing his stag night.” He smoothes out his dress, wiggles his hips. “I’ll find him.” 

“Crowley!”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Aziraphale sighs. “I don’t.”

“Well then, I’m off.”

He heads for the door, hips swinging, then pauses in the entranceway. “Wait, what about that maid?”

“The maid?”

“The one who Rick was asking to be Bianca’s escort? For the shoot?”

“Ohh!” Aziraphale gets it. “Oh, I didn’t think about her. I can find her. I think she said she was working a double shift tonight!” He stands, and his robe falls open, revealing the short nightgown underneath. “I can find her- you look for Mick in the clubs!”

Crowley makes a strange noise. Aziraphale follows Crowley's gaze down, looking at his exposed thighs. He purses his lips, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t have to say anything, I’ll get changed.”

Crowley clears his throat. “No, ah, no, it- you- look-“

“Exposed!” Aziraphale says. “I know.” He pulls the robe closed. “It’s so warm here, I can’t get comfortable in the evening.”

“Why are you in a nightie, anyway?”

Aziraphale pouts. “I like the fabric. It’s silk! Do we really have time to be discussing this?”

“No, no, not at all.” Crowley opens the door. “Back around 5, angel. I should be able to hit all the clubs before then.” He shuts the door behind him. 

Aziraphale feels a great relief just with Crowley being here. If anyone can help him get out of this situation, it’s Crowley. He almost feels bad about the things he said about Crowley to Bianca. _He's a bit like your Mick, I think. A bit of a scoundrel. I'm not supposed to, but I like it. I like him. So very much._

He takes the robe off and hangs it in the closet. He grabs the sundress that hangs next to it when a knock sounds on the door. _Crowley._

“Did you forget something?” he calls as he opens the door . . .

to Mick Jagger. He’s dressed in only a pair of jeans slung low on his hips. A seashell necklace hangs from his neck. He leans against the door jamb and puts up a hand. “Hi there Zora.” His pupils are blown wide and he has a lascivious grin plastered on his face. “I heard you were looking for me.” His voice is very low. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, microseconds before Mick leans forward, arms outstretched. Aziraphale takes a step back and Mick trips. His forward momentum throws them both to the ground. He splays over the angel, his long limbs covering Aziraphale like a spider. Mick begins to kiss Aziraphale’s neck and Aziraphale cringes. “Uhm, Mick?” he asks gently. He begins to push at the man’s shoulders, softly as first, but then more forcefully as it becomes clear that Mick is not taking the hint. 

“Stop that!” He pushes hard against Mick’s shoulders. He does not want to blow his cover or hurt this man, but the sensation of Mick’s mouth on his skin makes his stomach churn. 

Mick stops and looks up into the angel’s face, the stupid grin still plastered on his face. “So you like a bit of rough, eh?” He resumes kissing Aziraphale’s neck. 

“N-no!” Aziraphale stutters, both blushing and horrified simultaneously. “And definitely not from you! You’re getting married.”

“Oh I’m not married yet, sweetheart,” he croons. He slides a hand down Aziraphale’s side, and begins lifting the short nightgown.

“Don’t!” Aziraphale says, his free hand reaching down and grabbing Mick’s. “I said stop it!”

“Zora,” he says cloyingly against Aziraphale’s skin. “No need to feel embarrassed. Bianca said you wanted to see me and there’s only one reason a girl who looks like you wants to find a man like me the night before he gets married.” He rolls his hips into Aziraphale’s own to emphasize his point. 

Aziraphale feels righteous fury fill his veins. His nostrils flare. “It’s Aziraphale,” he says angrily. “Not Zora.” He takes a deep breath and then pushes against Mick, reminding himself to hold back so he doesn’t kill the man. Heaven would be very upset to find out his mission failed because he murdered the groom. The man goes sprawling arse over teakettle and lands in a heap on the floor. His head thunks against the closed door of the hotel room and he groans. 

Aziraphale stands, smoothing down his nightgown and running his hand shakily through his hair. He has used his powers against a human only a handful of times in his life, and every time it has disturbed him. He was made to love all of the humans; physically hurting them makes him slightly sick. He takes a few deep breaths, calming himself, then comes over to Mick, who is sitting up and clutching his head. “You bitch,” he moans. 

“You deserve worse,” Aziraphale huffs. _And you won’t get it,_ he thinks, sighing. _At least not in this life._ “I asked Bianca if I could see you because I need to find your friend Rick.” 

Mick blinks blearily at Aziraphale from his position on the floor. “Who?”

Aziraphale stamps his foot and puts his hands on his hips. “Rick, you insensate ruffian! The man who took naked pictures of your soon to be wife this afternoon! Where can I find him?”

“How the bloody hell should I know?” he says loudly. Aziraphale goes down to one knee in front of him. Mick cringes, scrambling until his back hits the door. “Don’t hurt me!” 

Aziraphale raises one eyebrow and snaps his fingers. He’s never sobered up a human before, but their corporations are basically the same, so he imagines the same process. Down the hall, Keith Richards finds his liquor bottles full once again and rejoices. 

Mick looks at Aziraphale with wide slightly crazed eyes. With the alcohol out of his system, it’s just the uppers he took earlier working on him and he’s done an awful lot of them. “What do you want? What should I do? Don’t hurt me, please. Tell me what you want. I’ll never put my hands on you again, I swear.” 

Aziraphale sighs. “Well, that’s true, you won’t. Now, I want to know where I can find Rick.”

“Rick, which Rick? I know a lot of Ricks. Everybody’s named Rick. Ricks everywhere.”

“I know,” Aziraphale says, enunciating his words and speaking very slowly. “I need Rick Farley. The American. The one who took pictures of Bianca this afternoon.The photographer for the magazine.” 

“Oh him, that guy. I know that guy. His name’s not really Rick. He just goes by Rick. His name is Leon. I know him. He took pictures of Bianca this afternoon. I know him.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Tell me where he is.”

“Here, he’s here, in Saint-Tropez. He’s going to take pictures tomorrow. More pictures. Pictures of the wedding. I told everyone else they couldn’t come in the Church, but he’s in. He’s a good guy. Like him. I like Rick.”

Aziraphale huffs. “Where is he now? Where is he staying in Saint Tropez?”

“Here, at the hotel. I went by and saw the shots of you and Bianca. Beautiful, so beautiful, both of you. But no, I won’t touch you ever again, I promise, just don’t hurt me.” 

“What room number!” he practically shouts. “You scoundrel, stop your blubbering and just tell me what room number.” 

“316.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Thank you.” And now . . . he holds out a hand. Mick cringes at first, but Aziraphale continues to hold it out and smile in a friendly fashion. Mick gingerly accepts. Aziraphale hauls the rock star to his feet, and then turns him around. He opens the door. “Now, you just go back to your room, and think about your beautiful soon to be wife, and _don’t you ever tell anyone what just happened and remember that you don’t deserve Bianca,”_ he says coldly. He shoves Mick out the door and slams it behind him. 

He’s cold and a little shaky all over and wants nothing so much as to be back in his bookshop at home. But he has Rick’s room number. He looks at the clock. Crowley will be back in a half hour. 

Aziraphale picks up the crumpled sundress from where it lays on the floor. He changes quickly, and then decides to do away with the nightgown altogether. He drops it in the garbage can in the room. He decides not to tell Crowley about Mick’s advances. Crowley can be a bit . . . hotheaded about things like that. He’s only gotten worse in that respect over the years. 

He’s about to sit down and maybe have a fortifying glass of scotch when there’s another knock at the door. He trudges to the door irritably. If it is Mick Jagger, so help him. . . 

He opens the door and Crowley bursts in, eyes wild, shoes missing. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale’s brows knit together in confusion. “What? Nothing! Nothing’s wrong. What do you mean?”

Crowley looks around the room like he’s searching for a tiger. “ _Something_ happened. I felt it through the bond. I was walking the circuit and suddenly I felt this divine rage. Felt like a bee sting.” 

_Oh no,_ Aziraphale thinks. He has to get a better handle on the soul bond. This is the second slip he’s had this century. “Oh, that,” he says instead, brightly. “I just had to . . . deal with an unfortunate situation. But, it's good you're back-- I've got some news -- I have Rick’s room number.” 

“Oh!” Crowley says. “That’s great!"

Crowley doesn’t ask how Aziraphale came about this information, and Aziraphale is grateful. “Let’s see if we can make a plan on how to get the uh, _negatives_ , as you call them, and I’ll tell you about it later, shall we? It’s almost morning.” 

******

In the end, getting the negatives back from Rick, alias Leon, is ridiculously easy. Crowley sends a message up to Rick’s room asking for him to meet Aziraphale in the hotel bar. When Rick leaves, Crowley sneaks into room 316 and miracles all of the items in the room to the empty apartment above Aziraphale’s bookshop. Problem solved. 

Crowley and Aziraphale go down to the bar. The hotel is completely deserted-- just staff, quietly smiling at the two pretty ladies who have decided to have a liquid lunch. The paparazzi, the wedding party, and all of the guests have left for the wedding. Rick left in a panic to buy a new camera. Crowley and Aziraphale get strawberry daiquiris with fancy umbrellas. Then they get pina coladas. Then they get hurricanes. Then they get mai tais and walk out onto the beach. 

Aziraphale is still wearing his sundress. Crowley has changed into a blue bikini and a diaphanous cover up. They take beach chairs and sit looking out at the water.

Aziraphale sighs as he sips his drink and lets the sun soak into him. “Miracling the furniture away was actually a stroke of genius, Crowley. I was thinking I should probably actually put furniture in that apartment, in case HMRC ever comes to check up.” 

Crowley says, “They don’t do home inspections, Angel.”

“Even so,” Aziraphale says, “I should have a bed. I’ve never had one before.”

“What are you going to do with a bed? You don’t sleep!”

Aziraphale considers. “But you do. You might be over one day and feel like. . . Napping.” The implications of this hit him as soon as they have left his mouth. “I mean, or if your flat burned down or something. You could stay with me.” He sips his drink to cover his nervousness. 

Crowley huffs. “I’m not planning to need a place to stay because my flat burns down anytime soon.” 

They lapse into silence, looking at the sunlight sparkling on the surface of the water. 

“What did you tell Bianca about me?” Crowley asks suddenly. “How did she know all about _Anthony_?”

Aziraphale smiles at the memory. “I told her I knew a thing or two about how to deal with rascals.” He grimaces then. “Although you are, I must admit, much ni-- I mean, much better than Mick Jagger. As a whole . . . being. Entirely. I had no idea what kind of scoundrel he was when I made the comparison.” Aziraphale purses his lips at the memory and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. 

Crowley turns to him, but Aziraphale keeps his head resolutely straight. 

“You shouldn’t throw away that nightgown,” Crowley says, apropos of nothing. He turns his head back to the water. “I saw it in the trash can.” 

Aziraphale turns to look at him, gauging how much Crowley knows. How much Crowley senses. He’d quite forgotten how Crowley could sense lust. Aziraphale sighs. Of course Crowley didn’t have to ask what happened. He knew everything already. He'd come back just a few minutes after Mick had left. Probably saw him in the hallway. Aziraphale turns his head back towards the water, takes a sip of his drink. “Why is that?’

“Well, you might need it now that you have a bed.” He pauses. “You might feel like . . having a lie down sometime.”

“I tried that almost 2000 years ago.” The memory of lying in bed with Crowley is bittersweet. 

“Yeah, times change. Situations change. Time changes a lot of things. Heals a lot of wounds, they say. Besides,” he continues, “you said you liked the fabric. And it did look nice on you.”

“Maybe I’ll buy another one,” Aziraphale says, softly. “That one . . . doesn’t have a lot of good memories with it.” 

Crowley nods. “I can understand that.”

Aziraphale looks at the bright sparkling sun on the water. He'd been so excited about this holiday when he first came here, he thinks sadly. He hadn't been to the beach in decades. He'd spent a lot of time thinking about how wonderful it would be to sit in a lounge chair and read a book while listening to the waves. He hasn't even gotten to the trashy paperbacks he'd picked up just for this occasion. “This really has been the worst holiday ever,” he complains. He finishes his mai tai regretfully. He suddenly feels so downtrodden about the entire experience. Even the work hadn't gone well. He’d almost messed up the miracle and the temptation and Crowley had needed to come to his aid. . . Again. And then there was that awful incident with Mick Jagger. He shudders. “I wish I could have gone somewhere without any people.”

Crowley snorts. Aziraphale turns to look at him. “Who would cook food for you?”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “All right, maybe just a few people.” He turns back to the water. “Maybe on a secluded lake, in a little cottage.” 

Crowley nods. “Sounds lovely.” 

“You could come, too,” Aziraphale says mildly, lost in his daydream. “It would be lovely to have a nice relaxing holiday with you.” He realizes what he has said and backtracks quickly. “I mean, someday.”

“I’d like that, Crowley says idly.  
  


Aziraphale looks over at him. He’s surprised. “You would?”

Crowley’s face is neutral. Honest. “Sure.” 

“I mean... in a friendly way. As friends. We are friends?” Aziraphale asks. He feels just a little bit desperate, and hates that he’s asking this question, but, after what Crowley said about Mick Jagger . . .“We’re best friends, aren’t we? I mean aside from . . “ he waves between them to indicate the soul bond. “From what I did back in Eden.” 

Crowley smiles gently. “We are best friends, angel.” 

Aziraphale feels a wave of relief and love come over him. He is not sure if the love is his or Crowley’s. He doesn't much care. “Oh, I’m so glad you think so.” 


	22. 1801, 1862 AD (Day 22: Embrace)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped Chapter 21 because of the non-con warning, here is the short recap: Not knowing where to find Rick the Playboy photographer, Crowley goes off to the clubs in search of Mick Jagger, hoping he can give them a lead. In the meantime, Mick finds Aziraphale, and thinks 'Zira' is after a one night stand with him. He applies himself rather forcefully, and Aziraphale has to use his heavenly rage to fight him off. Crowley and Aziraphale find Rick, get the negatives, and then have drinks on the beach. Aziraphale tells Crowley that he for his next holiday he would like to go to a nice little cottage on a secluded lake.

February, 1801, London, UK

It’s after dark and Crowley idly wanders the section of the bookshop where a sign reads “Personal Collection - Not For Sale”. His fingers rest gently on the spines as he examines the books. The bookshop sign is turned to Closed and a single lamp lights the front room, casting long shadows. 

“You’ve got a very impressive collection, angel,” Crowley calls. In the back room, he hears Aziraphale fussing with wine glasses and corks. 

“Oh, thank you my dear!” Aziraphale says. Crowley can hear the absolute delight in the angel’s voice. He pictures the beaming smile in his mind. 

He is pretty impressed . . . with Aziraphale himself, actually. The angel has put down roots at last, finally admitted, at least to Heaven, that he intends to have a permanent home here on Earth. Or at least as permanent as it gets. And he did it in London, Crowley’s favorite city. Which works out well because Aziraphale is his favorite person, if he’s being honest. Since he’s a demon, he’s very good at lying. Even to himself. 

“You know, for an angel, you’ve got an awful lot of witchcraft and occult books.”

Aziraphale’s voice calls out from the back room where he is opening the wine. “I’m supposed to be vanquishing evil as well as doing good.” 

Aziraphale walks in from the back of the shop, two glasses of red wine in hand. He hands one to Crowley, who accepts it with a smile. “So this is, what, your opposition research?” Crowley asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Not as such,” Aziraphale says. He sounds a bit . . . _nervous_. 

_Oh,_ Crowley thinks, with a slow satisfaction. _He’s got a secret._ Crowley has gotten secrets out of Aziraphale before. The angel can dissemble with the best of them, and is a master at deceiving without outright lying. But Crowley knows how to press and wheedle. He wonders what wonderful embarrassing secret Aziraphale is keeping. He thinks about how long Aziraphale pretended to be scandalized by Moliere, only for Crowley to find out he’d been regularly crossing the channel to see every premiere. Crowley had memorized lines from _Tartuffe_ and _The School for Wives_ solely so he could trot them out at opportune moments to make the angel scowl and blush. _This is going to be fun,_ he thinks. He takes off his sunglasses, puts them in the breast pocket of his jacket. 

“Oh really? So why _do_ you have them?” He fixes his gaze directly on the angel, his eyes boring into Aziraphale’s own. He means to get this secret, whatever it is, out before the night is through. 

“I’m a bookseller now.”

“Yes, but this is your personal collection.” He gestures to the small sign. 

“Yes, it is.”

When he says no more, Crowley presses. “So why do you have occult books in your _personal_ collection, if they are not for opposition research?”

“Well, I have a lot of books in my collection,” Aziraphale squeaks. “Do you want to see the Shakespeare Folios? I have _The Comedy of Errors_.” He turns his back on Crowley and begins to search the shelves. 

“I’ve seen _The Comedy of Errors_ ,” Crowley says mildly, letting Aziraphale think he’s succeeding in distracting him. “You know I like the funny ones.”

Aziraphale sounds pleased. “You do! Did you know they’re going to be putting it on again in a few months?”

_I told you that last week,_ Crowley thinks. He says, “Oh, really?’

“Yes! Maybe we could go together-- so many people, it would be hard for anyone from either of our sides to pick us out of the crowd.” 

“I’d like that.” 

“Ah, here they are!” He reaches up to the top shelf. Crowley takes one step forward, covers Aziraphale’s hand with his own. 

Aziraphale, startled at the touch, pulls away. A bit of wine sloshes over his glass, drips to the floor. “Oh!” Aziraphale pulls out a handkerchief and bends over, soaking up the spilled wine from the hardwood. 

“Angel,” Crowley says. He bends down, reaches out a hand and touches Aziraphale’s chin gently. Aziraphale startles, knocking over his entire glass of wine, his eyes catching Crowley’s. Crowley drops his hand to his side. “You’re avoiding my question.”

“Well, I’m a bit busy now, I’ve spilled my wine.”

Crowley snaps his fingers, and the wine glass rights, all the wine back inside. “Fixed. Now answer my question.” 

“Oh, that’s very ni-- polite of you to clean up the mess.” 

Aziraphale stands, wine glass in hand. “Let’s retire to the back room, shall we? There’s more light back there.” Aziraphale starts to go around Crowley, who blocks him. 

“First, I want an answer to my question.” He takes a step forward, crowding Aziraphale into the bookshelf. 

Aziraphale dithers, shrinks back. “Which question is that? You ask a lot of questions, Crowley. I suppose it’s in your nature, but-”

“Why.” 

“Why what?” 

“Why do you have books on witchcraft?” 

“I’m a bookseller now.”

“You are not selling these books, Angel, and we both know it.”

There is a long pause. Aziraphale looks at the ground, at the bookshelves, at his full wine glass. Anywhere but at Crowley. Finally he says, in a small voice, “I don’t want to tell you.”

“But I _want_ you to tell me,” Crowley presses, lowering his voice. 

“Crowley, it will make you very upset.” 

“What?” he asks, startled. He had expected that it might make _Aziraphale_ upset, but. . . 

“I said, it will make you-”

“I heard you, I just-- what secret are you keeping from me that will upset me?” 

“I don’t want to tell you,” Aziraphale says again. “Please, Crowley, don’t ask me.”

This has gone beyond mere curiosity and the desire to get a little more ammunition to rib his friend. Now Crowley is legitimately concerned. 

“Angel, is it something serious?”

“Yes,” he almost whispers. He sounds. . . Ashamed?

Crowley puts a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Look, whatever it is, I’ll help you, I promise. Whatever situation you’ve gotten yourself into, I can help. Right? It’s part of our arrangement. Lend a hand when needed?”

Aziraphale seems to crumple a bit. “All right. You- you should know. I haven’t found a way to fix it, even though I’ve tried.” He takes a deep breath. “Let’s go sit down.”

Crowley allows Aziraphale to pass and they retire to the back room. 

Crowley sits on the small sofa. Aziraphale sits next to him, staring at his wine glass. 

“Aziraphale-“ Crowley begins, but the angel cuts him off. 

“I made a soul bond.”

Of all the things Crowley is expecting, that was not anywhere near the top 500. “Oh.” He shifts back in his seat, looking at Aziraphale in a new light. “Is that allowed still? Between angels?” 

“No,” Aziraphale says cautiously. 

Make that the top 1000. “I see,” He is not quite sure how this makes him feel. “So, is that . . . that’s the reason for all this, then?” He waves his hand around. “Buying a shop, putting down roots . . .” Crowley thinks first about how he is going to deal with a completely heartbroken Aziraphale in forty or fifty years time, when whatever human he has fallen in love with dies. Then he thinks about the best way to conceal what Aziraphale has done from Heaven. 

“In a way, I suppose,” Aziraphale says. He looks at Crowley very intently. “You’re not-- you’re not angry with me.”

Crowley blinks, considers. “I guess I'm a bit upset that you didn’t tell me beforehand.” He would have liked to meet the human first. Suss out whether whomever it was could be worthy of his favorite angel. He can’t imagine what this person must be like. 

“Oh, but I couldn’t!” Aziraphale wails. He buries his face in his hands. “I didn’t know what I was doing! I didn’t even know what a soul bond was!”

Crowley blows out a breath. “Look, I’m not that uspet about it, all right? I’m sure they are a perfectly lovely human, and you don’t need my permission to do it.” 

Aziraphale looks up at him. “Oh, Crowley. . .” he begins. He reaches a hand out, then thinks better of it. “Crowley, I didn’t bond with a human.”

Crowley goes absolutely still. There’s a roaring in his ears. It sounds like wind rushing past him. “So if it’s not an angel, and it’s not a human. . . that’s not possible.” 

Aziraphale looks miserable. “I assure you, dear boy, it completely is possible.” 

“No, you-- you’re not talking about-”

“The ‘love token’ as you call it.”

“Me?” Crowley says incredulously. None of this is making sense whatsoever. “Aziraphale, you don’t have a soul bond with me. That link we have-- I don’t know what it is, but it’s not a _soul bond_. You can’t possibly have a soul bond with me! I’m a demon! It doesn’t work. All the bonds were cut when we Fell.” 

“‘Were’ may be the operative word, dear boy.” Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “You may remember that I uhm. . . wasn’t around then? I mean, when you Fell?”

Crowley feels the ground move underneath his feet. The roaring in his ears is louder, deeper. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “But I didn’t-- it’s not a one-way street. You couldn’t have bonded with me without my permission.” 

Aziraphale looks at him very carefully. “I know, and I think-- I think I may have rather taken advantage of your vulnerable state.”

“My _what_?”

“Crowley, if you recall, you had just Fallen.” 

“I was Fallen, not stupid. I wouldn’t have bonded myself with an angel!”

“Wouldn’t you?” Aziraphale dares him. “You told me about the absence of Her love, Crowley. You told me how it felt, how empty you were, how numb you were. Do you think that, just maybe, in your despair, you might have latched onto something that you may not have thought was a good idea otherwise?”

Crowley opens his mouth, then hesitates. His mind goes back to that meeting on the wall, that kiss he’s replayed in his head a million times. He remembers that gnawing emptiness inside. It felt like a void, a hole that could never be filled. It felt like the sky before God gave him the stars to hang. And then he remembers seeing Aziraphale. He remembers feeling like he wanted to be close to him. So close. As close as possible. How he had thought more of Aziraphale than all of God’s other creations. He remembers thinking that he had to see him again if he wanted to keep his sanity. And the idea of bonding his soul with Aziraphale doesn’t seem so far fetched after all. 

Aziraphale sits back down. “Oh, Crowley, I am so very sorry. I-- All I can do is plead my ignorance to you. I would never have done this to you, would never have taken advantage if I had just known what I was doing at the time.” His eyes are shining with unshed tears. 

Crowley cannot handle this sober. He picks up his wine glass, drains it, then picks up Aziraphale’s and drinks half. Then he miracles over a bottle of Scotch from his rooms across town, unscrews the cap and pours a healthy amount into his wine glass. He takes a large swig. 

“Is that making you feel better?” Aziraphale asks sarcastically. 

“Yes,” Crowley snaps. “Yes, it bloody well is.” He sighs. “How long did you know?” 

Aziraphale looks away, guilty. He picks up his half empty wine glass. He mumbles something and then downs the remainder. 

“What?”

“I said . . . maybe . . . 1800 years.”

Crowley gapes at him. “You sneaky bastard. You’ve known about this for 1800 years and you’re just telling me now?” His outrage is palpable. 

“You just said it wasn’t even possible!”

“It’s not possible, but if you knew that it was, I would have liked to know sometime before now! Were you ever going to tell me? Or was I always going to have to weasel it out of you?” 

Aziraphale shifts in his seat. “I didn’t want to tell you because . . . with the books . . . I’ve been trying to find a way to break it.” 

Crowley suddenly feels sick. He thinks he might vomit for the first time in his life. “You-- you’ve been trying to break our _soul bond_?”

Aziraphale huffs. “You didn’t even know we were soul bonded until I told you ten minutes ago! Now you’re upset I’m trying to break it?”

Crowley reels from shock. “Aziraphale, this is-- a soul bond is _permanent_. Breaking it would destroy us completely.” 

“I know. That’s what everything I’ve read says about it, too. But Crowley, we-- we can’t let it go on. What if Heaven finds out? Or Hell?”

“They haven’t found out about the Arrangement, what makes you think they’ll find out about this?” 

Aziraphale pauses. “It’s getting harder and harder to stay away, Crowley. For both of us.” 

Crowley is silent. He is not sure what to say. Not sure what he can say. He's felt it, too. The pull to be with Aziraphale. More and more meetings. More and more casual encounters. “So the shop is . . .”

Aziraphale nods. “I put down roots here because _you_ are here. And I think . . . all the times we’ve run into each other . . . the times we’ve reached out to each other . . . we try to stay out of each other’s way as much as possible, but it would be safer for both of us if this bond didn’t exist.” Aziraphale reaches a tentative hand out and places it on Crowley’s. “For our safety. For _your_ safety.” His eyes are shiny with unshed tears and any residual anger Crowley feels is washed away by Aziraphale’s next statement. “You are my dearest friend, Crowley. My only real friend. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” 

Aziraphale throws his arms around Crowley. Crowley flinches at first, then slowly, slowly brings his arms up to return the embrace. As Aziraphale holds him, Crowley thinks _dearest friend_ , and _soul bond_ , and he feels something inside that he is sure is not his heart begin to beat. 

1862

Crowley hasn’t seen Aziraphale in almost six months, he’s been busy traveling to America to perform some temptations (and a few blessings). He and Aziraphale have been extra cautious. He only enters the bookshop from the back door. They never dine in public anymore, or share a pint. Neither of their reports to head office mention the other’s existence. As far as Heaven and Hell know, they are absolute strangers to each other. 

But Crowley is concerned. 

So he writes down “holy water” on the scrap of paper and tucks it into his breast pocket before heading for St. James’s Park.


	23. January 1, 2003 (Day 23: He Could Do Really Weird Things With His Tongue)

January 1, 2003

_Wake up! Get out get out hide hide hide hurry hurry! Please hide, please hurry!_

Aziraphale’s call through their link jolts Crowley awake. He has a brief moment of disorientation before recognizing that he is in Aziraphale’s bedroom in the small flat above the bookshop. He remembers lying down here in the bed covered in books sometime in the wee hours of the morning. Aziraphale had decided to take inventory of the books upstairs as part of some bizarrely human notion to be better about bookkeeping in the new year. Crowley had pushed a pile of books to the side to make some space for himself, and drifted off to sleep listening to Aziraphale drunkenly humming Bach.

_Wake up and get out now! Hurry!_

Crowley looks blearily around the room. He forgot to sober up and _fuuuuuck_ but that was stupid. Now that he’s awake he can feel just how awful all of him feels for sleeping in a fetal position with three hundred pounds of hardbacks as his bedmate. He lifts his head and a pile of books that were wedged against the top of his head slide down and lodge themselves under his neck. He can hear voices from somewhere nearby. 

“Something smells funny,” a deep voice says. 

“Oh?” Aziraphale’s nervous reply comes. “I’m not up here very often, I’m afraid.”

_Hide! You must hide! Please! He’ll destroy us both._

The sheer terror that Crowley feels coming from Aziraphale can only mean one thing: surprise inspection. He’s heard about these from Aziraphale, but he’s never had the misfortune to be at Aziraphale’s shop when one actually happens. He could miracle himself back to his own flat, but there’s no way he’s leaving Aziraphale alone and helpless, in case they _are_ found out. Crowley is not sure what he would do, but he is an excellent liar and a grade A bullshit artist, if he does say so himself. Whatever hole Aziraphale manages to dig them into, Crowley is absolutely sure his bullshit can pile up and get them out of it. But ultimately, it’s probably just easier if he hides.

Mindful of the books, he begins to slowly shift into his snake form. 

The voices are getting louder now. Coming up the stairs? Must be. 

The stranger’s voice again, closer. “Why do you have an upstairs anyway if no one is ever up here?”

“It’s my flat. For the tax people. Need to keep up appearances to fool the humans,” Aziraphale laughs nervously. “Never know when someone from the HMRC will pop round.” 

_You never listen to me, you daft angel,_ Crowley thinks. _I told you no one from HMRC comes round to check up on your flat._ Once they are out of this situation, he is going to give Aziraphale a raft of shit for that sentence. 

“Ah, yes, they’re one of our best groups!” the voice says. 

_Liar,_ Crowley thinks. A government agency obsessed with minutiae and almost universally hated, even by those who benefit from it? Only humans could be so clever. This does not mean that Crowley hasn’t also taken credit for them in Hell, but he’s a demon- lying is in his nature. For angels, it’s bad form. 

Now fully transformed, Crowley begins to shrink his body until he is no bigger than an adder. He slithers between the stacks of books, off the bed and underneath. More footsteps. Aziraphale and the angel inspector are standing in the bedroom doorway now. Crowley coils himself behind a pile of loose books and papers that have been shoved under the bed. He rests his head on the top of a battered paperback, but from his vantage point all he can see is feet. 

“Yes, I was just up here earlier today, Gabriel,” Aziraphale says. “Doing a bit of inventory.” 

_Gabriel._ Crowley can’t help himself- he hisses. 

“What was that noise?”

_Bollocks._ Crowley ducks his head behind the paperback. 

“These old buildings make some strange noises sometimes,” Aziraphale says, neither confirming or denying the presence of a noise. _Good job, angel_ , Crowley thinks. 

“It almost sounded like an animal.” Crowley coils himself tightly, trying to make himself as small as possible. 

“Surely not an _animal_ , although, I really don’t spend enough time up here, it’s just storage.” 

There’s a very long pause. Crowley wonders what is possibly going on. He lifts his head up so he can see over the paperback again. In the doorway of the room, he can see Aziraphale’s beige shoes and the bottom of his trousers. Next to him shiny black patent leather shoes peek out from under light gray trousers. The shoes are so shiny and reflective Crowley thinks the owner can probably use them to shave. 

“I thought you said you were up here earlier today,” Gabriel says slowly.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale says. He sounds nervous. Crowley has tried to use their bond to send messages to Aziraphale in the past, but he’s never gotten it to work. Even so, he wills Aziraphale to be more confident. It’s the key to winning every conversation. “I mean I’m usually not up here. That’s what I mean. Usually, I am _not_ here, but earlier today, I _was_.” 

Gabriel’s footsteps are heavy as they walk into the room. Crowley can imagine what he sees, because it’s exactly the same as what he saw last night: a small bedroom stuffed with late 1960s hotel furniture. And stuffed on top of every available piece of late 1960s hotel furniture are books. Stacks and stacks of books. Boxes of books. It’s a miniature downtown London of books; packed skyscrapers of books with tiny roads for corporeal feet to travel down to see more books. The area around the bed has been nearly walled in, except for the space Crowley cleared for himself this morning when he crawled in, drunk, to have a lie down. 

“You have an awful lot of books, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says. 

“Well, this _is_ a bookshop.” Aziraphale chuckles. Gabriel does not. 

“How do people buy books if they’re up here?” 

“Oh, they, uhm, they don’t. I mean, they’re not allowed up here, since it’s supposed to be my personal space, but I’m using it to store books.”

“And you’re storing them because you’re going to sell them?” 

“I have to finish my inventory project before any could be sold.” Aziraphale is using shorter sentences at this point. Crowley can imagine the look of mild annoyance on his face. Annoyance is good. Annoyance is better than nervousness. An annoyed Aziraphale is an emboldened Aziraphale. 

“So you put all this stuff here and you don’t even know what’s here?” 

“Well, I know some of what’s here, but I need to do inventory-- you know, write it all down, get my head straight about it.” 

“Yes,” Gabriel says. The way he says it indicates that he has no idea what Aziraphale is talking about and he thinks this fact is purely Aziraphale’s fault for being an idiot. 

_He may be an idiot, but he is my idiot_ , Crowley thinks possessively. Involuntarily, he hisses again. 

“There’s that noise again,” Gabriel says. 

“Hmm,” Aziraphale says noncommittally. 

Crowley sticks his tongue out and ties it neatly in a knot. He would perform a demonic miracle and banish the thing entirely if he wasn’t concerned that Gabriel might comment more on the smell of evil in the air. Furious at himself, he begins to slink around the books, moving cautiously farther under the recesses of the bed. 

“Did you hear it?” Gabriel asks. 

“I did . . . as I said, these old buildings do make strange noises. Do you know, in some flats the heating makes a clanging noise? Some humans used to think it was caused by ghosts. Very silly.” Aziraphale chuckles again. 

_Good topic change,_ Crowley thinks. He slides up against a hard sided suitcase under the bed. The zipper is open. 

Gabriel laughs, too. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. These humans are so stupid. How do you put up with them?”

“Oh, well, you know, I have been stationed here on Earth for my entire life. And the Almighty did send me here, so in a way, I think I was made to love them, even with their faults.” 

_No, no,_ Crowley thinks. _Don’t talk too much._ Crowley peeps his head around the edge of the bag. He watches Gabriel’s shoes move farther into the room, and come to rest right by the bed. Crowley holds perfectly still. He feels the bed above him shift as the archangel picks up a book. 

Aziraphale almost shouts, “No, don’t!” 

Whatever Gabriel has done has dislodged a whole slew of books which fall like rain around the bed. Crowley dives into the recesses of the suitcase, just in case the whole bed collapses. The London of books is beginning to collapse, pile after pile sliding in a hailstorm of paper that ceases abruptly as Aziraphale snaps his fingers. Crowley can hear the sound of shuffling as books right themselves. 

“You should really be more careful,” Aziraphale chides. Crowley winces. _Too confident, too confident . . ._

There’s a heavy sound-- almost an absence of sound-- and a strange presence in the air. Crowley sticks his tongue, still tied, out. He can taste a charge of electricity, not dissimilar to the air before a summer thunderstorm. 

“Did you just use a miracle on those books?” Gabriel asks. His voice is strangely quiet, and deadly serious. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale sounds a bit panicked now. “Oh, I did! I just -- I’ll forget my own head next, it just happened, force of habit.” 

_Stop talking!_ Crowley thinks. 

“So you do this all the time?”

“Well, no, I mean, yes-”

“How can you mean no and yes at the same time?” 

“Oh, uhm, well, I mean no, I don’t do it all the time. I am usually just really very careful around the books so I don’t have to, just in special circumstances.” 

_Stop talking now!_ Crowley thinks urgently, frantically. _Stop talking NOW!_

“I see,” Gabriel says, in a voice that, in no uncertain terms says, “I don’t see.”

Aziraphale, thank Satan, is _finally_ being quiet. 

“Well, now I know at least one of the reasons you’re always above your quota on miracles.”

Aziraphale remains quiet. 

“Anything to say for yourself about that, Aziraphale?” Gabriel asks expectantly. 

“No,” Aziraphale says, in a reserved voice.

“Repentance can be found in silence, but is best done with a glorious rejoicing!” Gabriel says, his whole demeanor changing. He reminds Crowley of a used car salesman. “Do you like that one? Guess who thought of it-- you’ll never guess, go on and guess, you’ll never get it.”

“I, er, I don’t know, uhm, Michael?”

“Michael!” he cries, delight evident in his voice. “Hah! I knew you would never guess, it was Uriel!”

“Oh.”

“Uriel comes up with the greatest lines! Ze's just the best!” 

“Indeed,” Aziraphale says. Crowley can hear him doing his best to put some kind of positive emotion into the word. 

“Yes, Uriel has some real good ones…”

Gabriel is prattling on and on about Uriel and zir great lines, like ze's the archangel equivalent of Shakespeare. Crowley longs to be free of the suitcase, but doesn’t dare move. The whole thing smells like dessicated suntan lotion and new plastic. There’s a bunch of plastic and metal curved things in here digging into his sides, and . . . oh. _Oh_. Crowley knows _exactly_ what this bag is for. What’s inside it. And he absolutely positively cannot believe that bloody stupid angel has left it here for thirty years . . 

“Now!” Gabriel claps his hands. “This was immensely helpful and I think I know exactly how I can make the new miracle forms even more specific so that we can finally stop this power drain we have going on and put all our miraculous power back where it belongs!” 

Crowley has missed something and wonders what in the seven levels of Hell Gabriel is talking about. A power drain? He will have to ask Aziraphale about that later. After he takes this bloody camera and the bloody negatives and destroys them.

“That’s good,” Aziraphale says. He is still saying as little as possible. 

“Oh, lighten up, Aziraphale! You’ve done a great job! This inspection has been worth every minute! Most of the time they’re boring and I go back and I don’t know what to do next, but this one has been extremely enlightening. You’ve been so helpful! This is just what we needed to know. I don’t think we’ll need another inspection for another five or maybe ten years at this rate!” 

_Thank Satan,_ Crowley thinks. Aziraphale is miserable company when he’s nervous about the potential for an upcoming surprise inspection. 

“Jolly good,” Aziraphale says, in a way that’s neither jolly nor good. 

“Didn’t I tell you to lighten up?” Gabriel almost shouts. 

Aziraphale gives a forced chuckle. “Yes, you did, and yes, that’s . . . that’s great news. I’m so happy I was able to be of assistance.” 

“You definitely were!” Gabriel heads towards the bedroom door. “I look forward to your new reports! I think they will definitely be the best ones ever!” 

Crowley hears Gabriel walk away, the clop of his shiny patent leathers on the stairs. Aziraphale remains still. 

“Oh, Aziraphale?” Gabriel calls. 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Yes?” he asks thickly. 

“Make sure you definitely inventory those books, Aziraphale. And then you should start purging because I think you must have some evil ones in here. This whole place stinks like Hell.” 

_What would you know about it, you goody two-shoes?_ Crowley thinks snidely. _Rule obsessed prick._

“Oh, yes, I’ll be sure to finish up the inventory,” Aziraphale says. “Goodbye.” 

Crowley waits two minutes, three minutes, four minutes . . . finally he hears Aziraphale sigh heavily. He peeks his head out of the suitcase and sees the angel with his face pressed against the carpet, looking under the bed. Crowley tries to say “Good job, angel," but forgets that he has literally tied his tongue. Aziraphale’s brows furrow in concern. 

“Crowley, what on earth have you done to yourself!?”


	24. April 17, 1906 AD; 1941 (Day 24: Love Potion)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I googled all the Mandarin for this, and don't speak a word myself. Google says mogwai is 'demon' and Tiānshǐ is 'angel'. A 'wu' is a witch.

Tuesday, April 17, 1906, early evening - Chinatown, San Francisco

Aziraphale smells the concoction the woman in front of him has brewed up and nearly gags at the stench. Across the pot, Xi Shi Fan scoffs. “Did you think breaking a love match should smell like roses, _mogwai?_ ” she asks. She places the pot back on the fire, and busies herself with a mortar and pestle, turning her back on him. Aziraphale sits in the small kitchen in Xi Shi Fan’s rundown tenement. Xi Shi Fan is a short and stocky woman in her early thirties. Hard work is written into the lines on her hands and face. Her youngest, a boy of almost three, sits on the floor playing with a small black kitten and a piece of string. He had hidden under the table when Aziraphale first came in, but he’s gotten more and more brave, and now sneaks glances when he thinks Aziraphale isn’t looking. Two daughters sit sewing by the fire. They refuse to look at him. He thinks they may be . . . sensitive, like their mother. 

“I told you I am _Tiānshǐ_ , not _mogwai_ ,” Aziraphale complains. “And as long as it works, I don’t care what it smells like.” He doesn’t say that it’s one of the worst things he has ever had the misfortune to be exposed to, and he recently spent 3 weeks aboard a crowded ship loaded with over 300 would-be Americans who didn’t have access to bathing water. As nauseating as the voyage was, Aziraphale was grateful for the time to practice his Mandarin. Most of the immigrants in San Francisco only speak their native language. Some of their distrust of the strange blonde Englishman melts when he greets them with a friendly “ _Nǐ hǎo_ ”. 

“A strange _Tiānshǐ_ that wants an anti-love potion,” Xi Shi Fan says. The boy on the floor yelps as the kitten scratches his hand. Xi Shi Fan lifts him easily. She bounces him for a minute or two on her hip until he stops crying, then calls to her eldest daughter. The girl sets down her sewing and takes her little brother into the bedroom to put him to sleep. They’re a big family-- seven in total, all living in this dingy two room apartment. Xi Shi Fan is six months pregnant. 

Aziraphale says nothing. He has been in San Francisco for almost six weeks, and he’s spent the majority of that time tracking down Xi Shi Fan. He had been disappointed to learn, upon his arrival in Shanghai that the preeminent _wu_ had left to start a new life in America just a few weeks earlier. He’s been halfway around the globe now, but Xi Shi Fan is the last in a long generation of _wu_. Her great-grandmother had written an excellent book Aziraphale had been able to get hold of recently. In the book, Xi Shi Fan’s great-grandmother had described a love potion that was intended to bind the souls of the lovers together forever. And if she could make something to bind two souls, then hopefully her great-granddaughter could make something to break such a bond. 

Aziraphale is aware that he is grasping at straws, but he feels just a bit desperate. Crowley has been asleep for over fifty years now. Aziraphale literally aches for the demon’s company. When they had parted, Aziraphale had expected that Crowley might stay away for longer than normal. He had not expected a note declaring that Crowley was feeling tired and would be taking an extra long nap. He had also not expected that nap to last decades. Aziraphale wonders if Crowley thinks he can stay asleep forever. It will not solve the problem. 

Crowley refused to help Aziraphale find a way to break the soul bond. Whenever Aziraphale brought the subject up, Crowley just said it wasn’t possible and he wasn’t going to waste his time on it. They would just have to be careful. 

And then he’d asked for holy water . . . called it _insurance_ , but Aziraphale knew what it actually was. A suicide pill. Hell would torture him for an eternity if they found out about the bond. Aziraphale is not sure what Heaven would do. He has a vision of a trial called in the Theater of Stars, the Heavenly Host assembled to watch the first angel Fall in almost 6000 years. He’s not sure he would survive it. Crowley had, but he wasn’t Crowley. He didn’t have Crowley’s confidence, his bravery. And with both of them in Hell’s clutches, their torment could be only as limited as the imagination. 

“You look sad,” Xi Shi Fan says, breaking into Aziraphale’s train of thought. 

He harumphs at the term, but answers grudgingly, “I am thinking about the past.” 

Xi Shi Fan makes a tsk tsk noise. “My grandmother said it is better to plan for the future than shed a tear for the past, _mogwai_.” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes at the term. Xi Shi Fan knew he was not human when he showed up on her doorstep earlier this afternoon. She had shut the door in his face as soon as he smiled, but Aziraphale’s persistence, and his cash, had changed her mind. “When you are as old as I am, my dear, there is a lot more past to consider.” 

Xi Shi Fan sniffs. “Also a lot more future. More than my grandmother ever had, even though you talk like her.” Her daughter returns from the bedroom, little brother now absent, and resumes her sewing before the fireplace. She doesn’t say a word, or look up from the floor. 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Thank you for this,” he says, eager to change the subject. “I have come a long way to see you.” 

“I expect you have,” Xi Shi Fan says. She takes the mortar and gently slides the thick black paste into a small blue bottle, and then goes to pot over the fire. She fills the bottle with just enough liquid to cover the paste, and then puts a cork in the top. She shakes it a few times, and then hands it out to the angel sitting at her kitchen table. 

Aziraphale takes the bottle from her, examining it closely. He looks dubiously at the rest of the leftover liquid in the pot. “What will you do with the rest?”

“That’s our dinner.” 

Aziraphale tries very hard not to look completely aghast. Xi Shi Fan laughs so hard her face turns red. “I’m joking….. Oh, just a joke ….” He smiles tightly, and stands. Xi Shi Fan wipes a tear from her eye. “You deserved that, _mogwai_. You are too serious.” 

He nods, anxious to leave. “So . . . the person just drinks this, and then . . ?”

“Then whatever love bond they have will be broken.” 

“Permanently?”

“Permanently.” 

Aziraphale slides the bottle into the pocket of his coat, takes his hat from the kitchen table. “Thank you very much, madam. I’m . . . what is the American saying? Much obliged.” He turns to leave, but she grabs his coat sleeve. 

“ _Mogwai, Tiānshǐ,_ whatever you actually are, please think about what you are doing.” 

“I assure you, I have thought about it.”

“This is very dangerous. I don’t know what god you come from, but you had better pray hard and make sure this is what you actually want.” 

Aziraphale goes very still. “I never said-”

“You don’t have to.” Her eyes are dead serious now. She casts a glance to her daughters and then switches into broken English. “Angel love deep. End love, maybe end you.” She switches back to Mandarin. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He nods stiffly. “I think so. Thank you for your concern, but I think it is misplaced.” He gives her the kindest smile he can muster. It looks more like a grimace. 

* * *

Back in his boarding house room, Aziraphale sits down in a chair and considers the blue bottle. Considers everything, really, because this concoction could potentially destroy him according to Xi Shi Fan. But it could also save him. Save them both. He wonders if Crowley thought about the holy water this same way. 

_This is the right thing to do,_ he thinks. _It is the_ kind _thing to do._ An angel and a demon cannot have a soul bond. It’s incredibly dangerous for both of them. And Crowley . . . poor Crowley. Trapped in this with him, taken advantage of in a moment of vulnerability. Aziraphale had blundered into Eden, let Eve eat the apple, given away his flaming sword, and made a soul bond with a hereditary enemy who was not in his right mind.

Aziraphale feels very sorry for himself suddenly. It’s not a position he’s been in often, but he’s here now and he wallows in his self-pity. He hasn’t managed to do anything right. Not one thing in his whole existence. Certainly he hasn’t done anything right by Heaven’s standards. No wonder God doesn’t speak to him. 

The last time he’d been in Heaven, he’d been reprimanded, again, for using too many powerful miracles. Gabriel had talked about how Aziraphale was a drain on the power of Heaven. _The Heavenly Host can’t be full of God’s righteous anger and prepared to smite our enemies if all of our power is spent on making sure the humans’ lives are more comfortable._

Gabriel has sent a new list of rules he must follow and they are getting more arbitrary and byzantine every day. 

He feels so unbearably lonely. It’s only been five decades since he and Crowley argued, but it feels like millenia. It’s been lonelier than his first 1000 years, flying ever westward chasing the sun and the humans. He has more time ahead of him than Xi Shi Fan’s grandmother could ever dream of, but it feels . . . empty. 

In times like these, Aziraphale wishes God would speak to him. He has never had the type of relationship Crowley described with Her, all those centuries ago, lying next to him in Rome. Aziraphale has spoken with Her only twice in six thousand years. And one of those times he was purposefully deceiving Her, afraid of the punishment he would receive for admitting that he had shown mercy for Adam and Eve. He wonders if there is a way he could speak to Jesus. Aziraphale remembers how good and clean and just wonderful he’d felt after Jesus had spoken to the Heavenly Host. He remembers the excitement of it all. He remembers thinking that if Crowley would repent, God would forgive. He remembers hearing _love thy enemies_ and feeling this wonderful hope inside him. But then he’d learned how Crowley had sinned, how Crowley had been cast out, how Heaven had turned against him. And all that hope had died, even before the memos from Gabriel started. 

_The Fallen cannot be forgiven._

_There is no repentance for those condemned to Hell._

_The Fallen do not have souls._

Aziraphale has never prayed in his life. He’s an angel, he knows there are proper channels for getting a message to God. Gabriel, for one. The Metatron, secondly. But he knows that humans do it all the time. They say they are talking to God, listening for answers. They look for messages from Her in the common things around them-- a sunny day, a beautiful flower, a smile. 

He feels a bit silly, but he gets down on his knees. He clasps his hands together in front of him, the blue bottle between his palms. And he begins to talk to God. He tells God all of his worries, all of his fears. He apologizes for his deception about the sword. He closes his eyes and pretends that God is a friend. That Jesus’s message was not just for the humans, but for him. He asks for forgiveness. He asks for guidance. He prays for a sign. He hears silence. 

Around five in the morning, his face red and tear-stained, Aziraphale goes to the dingy window and looks outside. He feels pathetic. He’s spent all night on his knees talking to himself, pretending God could hear him, pretending he was just another human on Earth that She might send a sign. Outside the window, he can see early morning foot traffic, and the light. He has listened all night. He’s heard nothing. 

He holds the bottle up, shakes it to remix the solution. This is it. He’s going to put an end to this nonsense once and for all. No more hiding from Heaven and praying to God for, somehow, things to be different. Who knows? Maybe he won’t even feel lonely anymore. He puts his fingers on the cork to the bottle, and the floor begins to shake. He has only a microsecond to think _earthquake_ before he stumbles, catching himself on the window frame. He stuffs the bottle into his pocket. There’s a roaring in his ears and then he’s stumbling, lurching side to side as he tries and fails to retain his balance. He can hear the building around him crumbling, bricks falling, the floorboards shifting and cracking. He puts a hand out to try to keep himself upright, and then the wall gives away and he’s suddenly falling through the air, two stories down. He can hear people screaming around him. He doesn’t have time to manifest his wings. He doesn’t have time to perform a miracle. 

His body smacks into the street below, and he rolls. His leg breaks. He hears it, feels a sharp pain rocket through him, but he can’t scream because he can’t breathe. There’s no air in his lungs. The ground is still rumbling and shaking. Pieces of buildings are falling all around him. He comes to a stop finally and begins performing miracles. He snaps his fingers, his breath returns. He snaps again and his leg knits itself back together. He tries to stand, and falls. The ground is still shaking. Around him people are running and falling. A building to his left collapses entirely, the walls folding like a house of cards. Behind him, a wall collapses, and a floorboard flies through the air, landing on his head. His vision swims, and blackness comes up to meet him.

* * *

Unconscious, Aziraphale finds himself in the Theater of Stars. He sees Michael and Lucifer square off on stage. It’s the vote, he realizes. The aftermath of the vote. The War. The casting out. He hears angels shouting in confusion. He sees weapons being drawn. Civility breaking down. He hears screams and sobs. There is so much going on at once, he doesn’t know where to look, where he belongs. He is terrified. 

“You cannot question Her will!”

“It can’t be a mystery to all of us! How are we supposed to know what to do?”

“Please no, you can’t do this!” 

“Come with me!” 

“I won’t be given orders by anyone other than Her!” 

“Please, please, no.” 

In the chaos, Aziraphale feels a tingle in the base of his spine. Familiar. Oh. Oh, of course. Before the Fall, that means . . .

* * *

Aziraphale comes to suddenly, gasping. He’s staring at a gray sky. Around him there is a deafening silence. He sits up, sees the ruined buildings. Bricks and chunks of masonry and heavy wooden beams lay where two and three story homes used to. 

In a few minutes, he will be desperate for someone to come help him. In a few minutes, he will grasp Crowley’s arms in his own, joy and sadness and grief mixing. In a few minutes, he will look Crowley in the eyes and thank God for him. And he will mean every word. He will not think that the earthquake is a sign from God. That would be the ultimate hubris. But he does get the sign he was looking for that day and it is Crowley, appearing when he is needed most. 

* * *

1941

After the Church, after the champagne, after Aziraphale realizes just what Crowley has been trying to tell him for almost one hundred and fifty years, after Crowley leaves the shop with a softly uttered ‘goodnight’, Aziraphale thinks of the blue bottle. He walks to the safe he keeps under a pile of books hidden in the back room. He puts in the combination and takes out the blue bottle, with Xi Shi Fan’s anti-love potion. He walks outside, opens the bottle, and pours the contents into the street. 


	25. Pre-4004 BC; 1 BCE (Day 25: Promises)

BEFORE

When his wings were white, he went to Mother and showed Her the stars he’d hung. 

_I organized them so they look like the animals you’re making. Look, this one is a bear. And this one is a scorpion._

_You have done well,_ Mother said. 

_What will you do with the animals?_

_I will put them on Earth,_ Mother said. 

He’d seen blueprints of Earth. _Not in the sky with the stars?_

_No, not in the sky,_ Mother said. 

_But why?_

Mother didn't answer that. Mother never answered that. 

He asked about the Earth. He asked about the stars. He asked about the humans. He asked about food. He asked about souls. He asked about plants. Mother would answer many things. But Mother would never answer why. 

Her silence made him sad. Her silence made him frustrated. Her silence made him angry. 

Mother said, _I can’t explain it to you._

_But why?_

He wasn’t the only one Mother didn’t answer. But he was one of the ones who kept asking. 

Soon Mother stopped answering the How’s in addition to the Why’s. Then she stopped answering the When’s, the Who’s, the What’s, and the Where’s. 

_I can’t tell you. I can’t explain it to you. I can’t show you._

Gabriel and Michael filled the void in her absence. They built the Metatron. They held meetings. They handed out rules, lists, regulations. 

He didn’t have to wonder where to hang the stars. Michael would tell him. He didn’t have to ask why he did what he did. The answer was always the same: _because._

He wasn’t the only one who missed Mother. He wasn’t the only one who kept asking Why. He wasn’t the only one who felt imprisoned. 

_I’ve got a plan,_ Lucifer said. _It will get us answers and it will work, I promise._

It didn’t work. It turns out angels can break promises. 

* * *

1 BCE

Crawly receives the summons to Hell and hopes he’ll be back in time to meet Aziraphale for drinks. He’s been looking forward to it for quite a while. 

Satan has summoned everyone to watch the trial. Crawly stands in the back, crowded in with the rest of the demons who elbow him and smear dirt on his robes and skin. No seats or personal space in Hell and no showers, either, not that anyone would take one. He doesn’t understand why everyone who works down here seems to revel in the grime. Not going to win any human souls by making a mess. It’s also become fashionable in Hell to also wear an animal on your head. Crawly doesn’t understand this and doesn’t really want to. He just wants to get back to Earth. The smell is much better. 

Beelzebub stands in front of the crowd. Ze raises a hand and everyone goes still and quiet. “Bring in the prisoner!” ze calls. 

Two demons bring a third up between them, and oh. . . Crawly recognizes that demon. Although, since he last saw her, she has been taken in by fashion and wears a very large fish on her head. She’s very tall, with long black hair. She is wearing some kind of brown tunic that looks like it’s made from animal hides. She and Crawly had shared a lift topside once. She told him all about her plans to teach the Chinese to worship their ancestors instead of God. She had been confident then. She looks bedraggled and nervous now. 

“Axiemoine, you are accused of consorting with the enemy!” ze shouts. 

The demons around him all begin to yell and curse. Some of them make wretching noises. Crawly schools his face. 

Ze holds up a hand for silence and continues. “You were found in the presence of an angel of the Lord, in direct violation of the demon code. Do you have anything to say before judgement is passed?” 

Axiemoine lifts her head up. “I-- I was -- I was tempting--” she stammers. 

Beelzebub looks bored. “You were begging for forgiveness. You were begging to be let back into Heaven.”

The demons hiss and boo. Some of them scream obscenities. 

“I wasn’t! “ Axiemoine shrieks.

“Bring in her accuser!” Ze shouts. 

Someone steps on Crawly’s robe. He hears the fabric tear and curses under his breath. Then he sees who the accuser is and he really curses. 

The archangel Michael is approaching the dais. She carries a small vase of holy water. She is smiling. 

“You!” Axiemoine shouts. “How-- how could you--” . 

Beelzebub waves a hand and a gag appears in Axiemoine’s mouth. Ze yawns. “Angel, testify,” ze says. 

Michael smiles. “I would be happy to.”

“No one cares what makes you happy,” Beelzebub retorts. “Just get on with it already so we can get this overwith.” 

Michael looks put out. “I was contacted during a mission on Earth by the demon Axiemoine. When I met with her, she asked me to arrange for forgiveness and for her to be allowed back into God’s graces.” Ze smirks. “As if we would ever take one of you back.” 

Beelzebub nods. “Yes, good, that’s enough. Axiemoine, you are hereby sentenced to death by holy water.” 

A hushed murmur runs through the crowd. The demons around Crawly shift anxiously. A number of the animals on their heads let loose their bowels. Crawly wrinkles his nose. Who’s stupid idea was this fad anyway? 

He doesn’t have much time to ponder. The two demons bring Axiemoine center stage. Michael shrugs, lifts the vase up, and then pours water directly over Axiemoine’s head. Axiemoine melts into a black puddle of goo. The demons holding her begin screaming because the water has spilled and they are also melting into puddles. Panic ensues. The demons around Crawly begin pushing each other in a bid to get as far away as possible. Crawly can’t believe what he’s just seen. An archangel, in Hell, punishing a demon for asking for forgiveness? 

Michael smiles and looks at Beelzebub. “Is there anything else you need?” 

* * *

Topside, Crawly goes straight to Aziraphale’s room. He promises himself this will be the last time. He repeats what he’s going to say. _This is the last time, angel. We can’t see each other anymore. You’d better remove whatever this link is we have._ But he’s going to do it gently. He _has_ to do it gently. He can’t tell Aziraphale about what he’s seen, he can’t imagine trying to tell him. He doesn’t think Aziraphale would believe him- at least not the part about Michael. 

Aziraphale opens the door and wraps his arms around Crawly like he’s the most precious and dear thing in all the universe. All of Crawly’s carefully chosen words die in his throat. _Fuck._

Demons break promises all the time. 


	26. The Last Day (Saturday), 2019 (Day 26: Love Song)

The Last Day (Saturday) - Heaven

The Quartermaster is enraged. “I count them all out, and I count them all in again. And then you turn up-- LATE!-- for Armaggeddon! No flaming sword! Not even a BODY YOU PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR AN ANGEL!” he screams. 

Aziraphale feels something rising up inside him. He thinks of all the rules and regulations that have been placed on him over the years. He thinks about putting clothes on and off quickly, because nakedness is forbidden. He thinks of sweaty days in his bookshop, because he can’t waste a miracle on corporeal comforts. He thinks of kale and quinoa salads. He thinks of hours of filling out tedious forms. He thinks of Sandalphon’s fist in his stomach. He thinks of every time he’s been afraid in the last 6000 years. 

Is this how love is supposed to feel? He thought all angels were beings of love. But he could never imagine talking to someone the way he has just been dressed down. If he saw someone treating a human this way, he would step in. 

Why not step in for himself? 

Words are echoing in his brain.

_Wars are to be won, not avoided. You’re ridiculous!_ _Lose the gut!_ Could these truly be the words of a representative from God? Could these words actually come from someone doing Her will? 

“Well, I suppose I am, really.” 

Is this what God really wants? Could this possibly be what She meant? Is this the same God Crowley spoke of? The one who used to lovingly tell Her children to hang the stars in whatever pattern they thought best? The one who told him kindly that he should look after the humans? The one who didn’t punish him for giving away the flaming sword? Is this the God who sent Jesus to Earth? Her Earthly son who said to _love thy enemies_?

“I mean, I have no intention of fighting in any war,” he says. He puts the uniform down. He is not a fighter. He is a being of love. 

Does the angel before him really represent God? Does God think he is a pathetic excuse for an angel? The same God he prayed to for a sign? The same God who sent him Crowley?

“Don’t be a coward!” the Quartermaster spits. 

Aziraphale doesn’t feel like a coward. He feels brave. He’s feeling braver every minute. 

The Quartermaster sidles up to him. “You get into position right now and I won’t say anything more about the body you discorporated. We can take the sword out of your celestial wages,” he says in a confidential tone. Aziraphale doesn’t want a pardon. He doesn’t want forgiveness, not from this angel. Not from anyone here. 

Why would God make an angel who loved humans? And human things? Human foods, human inventions? God is all knowing and all powerful. So why would God make _him_? 

“I was in the middle of something important. I demand to be returned!” he insists. His mind is still spinning. 

Why _would_ God make _him_? And _after_ all the others? He’s never heard of another angel being made after the war. Why was he the _last_ one? 

“Without a body? That’s ridiculous,” the Quartermaster huffs. 

Why would God make an angel who could love a demon?

“It is?” Aziraphale asks, realization dawning. 

Why would God allow an angel to make a _soul bond_ with a demon? 

“Obviously. What are you going to do? You can’t possess them,” the angel snorts. 

Crowley. He can get to Crowley. 

“Demons can.”

He can get to Crowley and he can tell Crowley everything. 

The Quartermaster turns his back.“You’re not a demon, you’re an angel.”

Aziraphale has stopped listening. He realizes he never needed to listen. He walks towards the spinning globe, a direct portal to Earth. 

“What are you-- where are you going?”

He is _God’s_ creation. He was made by _Her_ , not by Heaven. 

“How does one navigate?” he asks, looks over his shoulder, remembers he’s not in polite company. He’s not in any company. He’s with the only true enemy he ever had. 

“Oh well,” he says to himself. 

She told him to look after the humans. 

“Get away from that!” 

She said it would be obvious. 

“I’ll figure it out as I go.” 

Aziraphale has found it at last. Courage. 

  
  


* * *

Saturday Evening - Tadfield Bus Stop

“It says Oxford on the front,” Aziraphale says, confused. The bus is slowing down, drawing closer. 

Crowley takes a swing from the bottle.. “Yeah . . . but he’ll drive to London anyway. He just won’t know why.” 

Aziraphale swallows. He defied Heaven today. He stood up for himself to a Quartermaster. He broke all the rules. He stood side by side with a demon. He questioned Gabriel. This shouldn’t be hard. He wonders where his bravery has gone. “I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop.” He wants to hear Crowley say “I’ll come, too.” He wants to hear Crowley say, “Let’s go out for a drink.” He remembers telling Crowley they weren’t friends. That he didn’t even like him. He expects to hear Crowley say, “Sounds good,” or “Have a nice life”. 

What Crowley says instead is: “It burned down, remember?” Aziraphale remembers sitting on a beach with Crowley almost fifty years ago. Telling him he could stay at the bookshop. If his flat ever burned down. Crowley must remember too, because he says, “You can stay at my place, if you like.”

Aziraphale can’t help the words that come out of his mouth. As much as he’s stood up to all the bullies today, he knows that there’s tomorrow. And tomorrow he must figure out how to put the genie back in the bottle and ask for forgiveness. “I don’t think my side would like that.”

Instead, Crowley just looks at him sadly. “You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We’re on our own side. Like Agnes said, we need to choose our faces wisely.”

The words echo in Aziraphale’s mind. He stands and follows Crowley onto the bus. _Our own side._ He takes the seat next to him. _Our own side._ He reaches out and covers Crowley’s hand with his own. _Our own side._

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly. The demon turns to look at him. He hasn’t moved his hand from where it grips the armrest. Hasn’t acknowledged Aziraphale’s touch. Aziraphale feels butterflies in his stomach. He’s nervous, so very nervous. How can he have faced down everything and still feel so nervous about _this_? He turns as best as he can in the cramped bus seat. His knees knock into Crowley’s. “Can you forgive me?”

Crowley’s face is blank and expressionless. Aziraphale wishes he wasn’t wearing sunglasses. “Nothing to forgive,” he says at last. His voice is clipped and tight. 

“No!” Aziraphale says, loudly. The other passengers on the bus turn to look at them. “No,” he says again, softer, but no less urgent. “ _You_ can’t do that. _I_ can’t do that. We-” He stops, trying to figure out what exactly he wants to say, how he can say everything that he’s been keeping bottled up inside for 6000 years. He’s loved words his whole life. He should have prepared for this. But Crowley was right, sixteen years ago: _You’re never going to be ready._ He wasn’t. If he was ready, he would have prepared. He would have thought these words through. He would have known exactly what to say and how to say it. 

“Let me try again,” he urges. Crowley raises an eyebrow, nods. 

“What I mean is, If this is our side, if _we_ are on _our_ side, then _our_ rules apply, right?” 

Crowley nods, slower this time. 

“And who makes _our_ rules?” 

Crowley considers, looks off into the mid-distance. “I don’t think we have rules anymore.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, no, we have to have some-”

Crowley sighs. “Aziraphale, a lot has happened and I think this is-”

“Listen to me, please,” Aziraphale says, his voice getting loud again. The woman in the front of the bus turns to give them a pointed look. Crowley smirks and waves a sarcastic hello at her. Aziraphale makes a sharp motion with the hand not holding Crowley’s. The woman suddenly becomes engrossed in her phone. Another motion and, against all logic, music is suddenly playing over the bus speakers. 

“Ooh, you make me live . . .” 

“That should give us a modicum of privacy,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley says, “Aziraphale, we don’t have to do this now. . .”

“We do,” Aziraphale insists. “I’ve waited 6000 years and if you make me wait another moment I’m going to burst.” 

Crowley stills. 

Aziraphale puts both his hand over Crowley’s. “I have not treated you well.” He clears his throat. “I have behaved most abominably in the past few days. I said things I did not mean, and I want to apologize.”

“What does this have to do with _rules_?” Crowley asks icily. 

Aziraphale bites his lip. He squeezes Crowley’s hand over the armrest. “If we are on our own side, then we make our own rules,” he says softly. “And I think that on our side, we must love ourselves as much as. . .” He swallows, and tries to catch Crowley’s eyes through the sunglasses. “As much as we love each other. And that means that if I have hurt you, I should apologize. And then you can either choose to forgive me or not, but you can’t go around saying there’s nothing to forgive, as if you’re not worthy of an apology.”

There is a long moment between them, the only sound the gentle rumble of the bus on the road and Freddie Mercury crooning over the speakers. “You’re my best friend.”

Then Crowley turns his hand over and grips Aziraphale’s tightly. Aziraphale lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

“I can do that,” Crowley says. “We can. And I forgive you.” His voice is rough. “But I don’t want any more rules.”

“A promise?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley shakes his head. “I don’t want a promise either.”

“Then what-“

“A vow.”

_You always go so fast,_ Aziraphale thinks. But there is a space inside him that’s singing. Crooning out a love song of his own, a love song for Crowley, one he’s kept under wraps and hidden away for centuries. He looks down at the floor and smiles softly. 

“All right,” he says, a blush creeping into his cheeks. “A vow.”

Crowley shifts in the plastic seat next to him. “I have another vow for us.” When Aziraphale looks up, he can see that Crowley has pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head. Their eyes meet. 

“I want us to vow that we are on our own side. Together.” Crowley says. His voice is thick with emotion. “No more hiding. No more pretending. No matter what. We owe only to each other. Agreed?” He sounds almost timid. It is strange to hear Crowley, so usually full of bravado and swagger, sound so very unsure.

Aziraphale nods. “Agreed.” He leans closer, bringing his face up to Crowley’s own. “What God hath joined together, let no one separate,” he whispers, feeling Crowley’s breath ghosting over his lips.

Crowley snorts and pulls away. “Oh, why did you have to go and bring Her into it?”

Aziraphale frowns. “I think She _did_ bring us together,” he complains. “I’m sure of it!” 

“An angel and a demon? Did your brain get fried when Adam separated you from that barmy psychic?” 

“God’s plan is-”

“Ineffable,” Crowley groans. “I know.” 

Aziraphale smiles. He leans in again. “Will you please let me kiss you now?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Why not?”

Crowley smiles at him, slowly and wickedly. His voice drops an octave. “Because I don’t think either of us wants to stop at just a kiss.” 

Aziraphale blushes again. He clears his throat, breaks eye contact and looks at the floor. “I assume the . . . uhm. . . offer of your flat still stands?”

“I even have a bed,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale brings Crowley’s hand up to his mouth and kisses the back of it gently. “How marvelous.” 

“There’s also another problem we have to solve,” Crowley says. 

“What’s that?” 

“We may be on our own side, but Heaven and Hell are going to kill us.” 

Freddie Mercury serenades them all the way back to London. 

“I was born to love you, with every single beat of my heart . . .”


	27. The Last Day (Saturday), 2019 (Day 27: All This Time)

Saturday Night - Crowley’s Flat 

Crowley and Aziraphale stand in the kitchen of Crowley’s flat, holding hands. Crowley hasn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand since the bus. He hasn’t put his glasses back on. He has felt on edge ever since he came out of the Internet and couldn’t find Aziraphale. He had tried to reach out through their bond and felt . . .nothing. It wasn’t like when Aziraphale had gone to hear Jesus preach in Heaven. Aziraphale described the bond to him like a rope that tied them together. When one of them was in Heaven or Hell, the rope was cut, and trailed into nothing. To Crowley, the bond has always felt much more like he was floating in space and Aziraphale was the satellite he was tethered to. If he lets go, he will disappear. 

Coming out of his phone, he’d hurried to his car, to find Aziraphale, and when he looked for his satellite, it was gone. There was only emptiness, the yawning chasm of the universe, black and cold, and him, floating or falling, alone. 

Aziraphale gently wiggles the fingers that are clasped with Crowley’s own. “Crowley-” he begins. 

Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s hand even tighter. “No,” he says softly. He is hungry for connection, in the absence of the bond. His brain is firing in a thousand different directions at once. “Please.” 

He tugs Aziraphale along with him to cupboards filled with glasses designed for specific types of alcohol. “My dear,” Aziraphale says gently, “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Crowley takes down two glasses and sets them on the counter with a loud thunk. “It’s really not bothering you?” He tries to keep the edge out of his voice, but fails. It’s been a very long day. He miracles a scotch bottle from his liquor cabinet. He tries to unscrew the top one handed, but it’s becoming increasingly awkward.

“Oh, no, the hand holding isn’t bothering me, but we do have to come up with some strategies to avoid whatever Gabriel and Beelzebub are planning, and I think you’d have an easier time pouring us a drink if you let go.” He wiggles his fingers. 

“I wasn’t talking about the hand holding,” Crowley says crossly. He doesn’t let go. “I meant our bond. Or, our lack of bond now. It’s not bothering you?” He succeeds in getting the cap of the scotch bottle off, and pours for himself and Aziraphale. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale pauses, looks confused. “What do you mean the _lack_ of bond?”

Crowley is flabbergasted. “What-- Aziraphale!” he almost shouts. “It’s gone. Our soul bond. I can’t feel it at all.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale frowns. “You can’t?”

“No!” Crowley says. “Not since you discorporated.” 

“I don’t understand. Just since I discorporated?”

Crowley nods. “Yeah. I was looking for you, but I couldn’t find you.” 

“But I found you!” Aziraphale protests. “The bond . . the bond is how I found you, Crowley. I followed it to you.” He is silent for a moment, his eyes unfocused. “It’s still here, I can feel it. I can trace it to you.” 

“But I can’t feel you,” Crowley says hoarsely. “I can’t feel you at all. It’s like you’ve burned away.” Crowley finishes pouring the blasted scotch, downs two fingers like a shot. The alcohol burns all the way down. He sloppily pours another, scotch dribbling down the side of the glass. “Why can _you_ feel it and I can’t? That’s not how a soul bond works. One person isn’t locked on to someone who isn’t locked on to them.” 

Aziraphale takes his glass and has a measured sip. “I’m not sure. If anything . . “ he pauses. 

Crowley waves his other hand impatiently. “If anything, what?”

“If anything, I think the bond feels a bit stronger to me now. Like-- I can feel your heartbeat.” Aziraphale looks at him, concentrates. “And your sadness,” he says softly. “You feel so sad, love,” Aziraphale says. “I feel so much sadness from you. How can you live with all this sadness?” His fingers clench around Crowley’s. “Come sit down, maybe you’re just not focusing properly. We have had a long day. I’m feeling very tired.” 

Aziraphale leads Crowley around his own flat, to the long black leather couch in his living room. Aziraphale sits first, and pulls Crowley down next to him. Their knees touch. Crowley feels better with the additional contact. He slides his body next to Aziraphale’s, so they are touching from shoulder to ankle. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He looks over at Crowley and smiles. Crowley feels his heartbeat speed up at the sight. “It feels so nice to be close to you. I never want to be parted again.” Then he frowns. “Wait, that’s not-- that’s not me, that’s you.” He shakes his head. “Oh, my, the bond feels so strong right now, I’m having trouble . . . I don’t know what I’m feeling and what you’re feeling.” He swallows. “Are you sure you can’t feel it? Here, I’ll try-- I’ll try to focus on something.” He squints his eyes scrunches up his face. He looks constipated. Crowley bursts out laughing. 

Then Aziraphale is laughing, suddenly, too, but he looks confused. “Why are we laughing?” he asks Crowley. 

Crowley sobers a bit, and feels a bit ashamed. “You just . . . you looked very much like someone having a very difficult time on the loo.” He smiles, trying to take the sting out of it. 

Aziraphale scowls, but then says, “But you’re ashamed? That I look that way? That you thought that?” Aziraphale puts a hand up to his temple. “Oh, this is very difficult for me. You feel so much, Crowley, and it’s all getting mixed up in here. Maybe . . maybe if we . . .” he shifts on the couch, moving away, allowing a few inches between them. 

Crowley feels the loss keenly. He gasps, almost whines. He needs Aziraphale to be right next to him right now. “Aziraphale, please . . .” He finds himself gripping Aziraphale’s hand tighter, pulling him back towards him with all his demonic strength. 

“Crowley, I can’t. . “ Aziraphale says, gasping. He’s pulling away from Crowley, matching his strength. “It's too much, everything, it’s too much for me, I can’t . . “

Aziraphale pulls away, Crowley pulls back in a tug of war, but even as he does so, he feels like the angel is slipping through his fingers. He feels a wave of despair and panic rise over him. His eyes unfocus. He’s floating away, out among the stars, all alone . . . 

* * *

Crowley is floating in the vacuum of space, unmoored to anything. All around him are tiny hard white dots of stars, and empty blackness. He’s so small out here. One demon in the vast abyss. Smaller than a speck of space dust. Less than a cell, less than an atom. Atom. Adam. He looks down and suddenly Earth is before him…. Two Earths, simultaneously. One is gray, red, and black. It’s a fireball of a planet, destroyed down to its very core. The other is the Earth he knows-- blue, white, green, patches of yellow and brown. 

_Where should these ones go, Mother?_ _  
  
_

_Oh, anywhere you like._

Crowley feels something come up behind him. It’s familiar and at the same time completely unfamiliar. He can feel power radiating from it. So much power, it’s frightening. This isn’t Satan. He knew Satan, before he gained all his power. He understands Satan. This is something else. Power at a level that he cannot comprehend. Whatever looms behind him is something that he doesn’t want to see. He doesn’t think he will be able to comprehend it. He’s afraid it will drive him mad. The enormity dwarfs him. He, this very small thing, smaller than an atom, Adam, atom, stands before something so huge and complex. Terror grips him like a vice. He’s frozen, can’t move, can’t scream. There’s no air to scream with here anyway. 

Words engulf him. They’re not spoken, they’re just felt, each syllable ringing through his bones to the very marrow. _You must choose your faces wisely._

_Choose_ , he thinks. Choice. He looks at the two worlds: one burning ash and the other living and vibrant. _A choice._

He closes his eyes against the blackness of space, against the dual visions of Earth, against the fearsome power at his back. Behind his eyes, he can see himself, and Aziraphale, six thousand years ago on the garden wall. Back when he was Crawly. _I remember you,_ he thinks, looking at Aziraphale’s brilliant smile. _I remember how young your eyes were._ He watches his former self smile and laugh with the angel. He hears Aziraphale say “my dear”. He hears Aziraphale say “Professional adversaries”. And then he sees Aziraphale lean forward and kiss him, and when he pulls back . . . something changes. When he pulls back, Crowley can see that Aziraphale has taken something from him . . . something small. . . just a few atoms, really. They follow Aziraphale, buzzing around his head like a halo. And Crowley can see the hole that Aziraphale has left. It’s small-- so very, very small. Aziraphale kissed him and took a piece of him, and he didn’t give anything back to fill the space. And Crawly . . Crawly! Crawling, out of the burning sulphur, burned black, Crawly, lower than low, beggar, squirming, he would have given anything for one taste of love . . . Aziraphale was right. He had been vulnerable. He had been exposed. 

He’s been asking for more of Aziraphale for 6000 years. And Aziraphale has been hiding him, keeping him tucked away like a secret for just as long. 

He opens his eyes and sees only the living world. Aziraphale’s words echo in his head. “ _On our side, we must love ourselves as much as we love each other.”_ He hears his own voice “ _A vow_.” 

_I chose,_ he thinks. _I chose already._

_I chose him. I choose him._

_Yes, I chose him,_ a voice rumbles through him. _For you._

* * *

Crowley awakens to find Aziraphale kissing him. The angel is sitting on his lap, hands gently holding his head in place, and softly pressing their lips together, over and over. He’s speaking words against Crowley’s lips. “I choose you, I choose you, I choose you.” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley mumbles against the angel’s lips. “Aziraphale, I choose you.” Crowley’s hands come up, shakily, to rest in the crook of Aziraphale’s elbows. 

Aziraphale pulls back far enough so Crowley can look in his eyes. They are filled with tears. “All this time . . .” he trails off. “You are _not_ my professional adversary,” he says, his voice breaking. “You’re my best friend. You’re my other half. I love you. This is not a love token, or a calling card. Will you bond yourself to me?” 

Crowley feels something inside him begin to glow. In the dark places, for the first time, he sees the light of dawn. “Yes,” Crowley gasps. “I choose you, I bond myself to you. Aziraphale, I love you.” 

And then they are kissing, and Crowley was right, there is no stopping them.


	28. The Last Day (Saturday), 2019 (Day 28: I'm Yours)

Crowley has dreamed of making love to Aziraphale before. In his mind’s eye, he’s suave, experienced. In his mind, he is a master of charm, he is sex incarnate. He seduces, he anticipates. He teaches Aziraphale all about the pleasures of the flesh. Aziraphale gasps and moans, shocked and aroused at his own wild abandon, while Crowley chuckles at his lover’s naivete. 

Reality is turning out to be quite different. For starters, Crowley has never actually got around to bedding a human. It seemed . . . kind of weird, to be perfectly honest. He might be in a human corporation, but he is not a human by any stretch of the imagination. So having sex with one would be just . . . not right. Like a whale trying to hump a duck, or a horse trying to have sex with a cow. . . just . . . not compatible. And he had never needed to bed a human in order to perform any of his temptations for Hell. Show a little skin, ask the right questions . . . that was always enough. So, there’s that. 

Then there is also the fact that between whatever just happened to him, and the feel of Aziraphale sitting in his lap, he has lost all coherent thought. He is full of . . . love. It is burning through him in the best way possible. Aziraphale is still kissing him, pressing their lips together over and over, soft, sweet little kisses. He’s whispering words against Crowley’s mouth, talking. 

“I love you,” he says.

And “You are for me.”

And “I'm yours.”

The constant litany of little endearments is making Crowley’s head swim. He feels wonderfully, gloriously drunk. Drunk on Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale runs his hands through Crowley’s hair. Crowley arches into his touch, relishing the feel, until Aziraphale tries to remove the sunglasses from the top of his head and . . . 

“Ow!” Crowley says into his mouth. “That’s my hair and it’s attached, angel.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Aziraphale says back. He lets go of the sunglasses. They do not stop kissing. “I guess,” Aziraphale says in a breathy voice, “I am a bit,” he places another kiss to Crowley’s lower lip, and this time his tongue gingerly swipes at it. “Eager.”

Crowley pulls back, breaks the kiss just long enough to reach into his hair, quickly detangle the sunglasses and toss them aside. They clatter to the floor of his flat. Crowley looks at Aziraphale, sitting on his lap, and smiles. The angel’s lips are reddened and moist and Crowley leans back in to kiss him again. He fits their mouths together, slides his tongue across Aziraphale’s lips. Aziraphale sighs against him. Crowley tentatively rests his hands on Aziraphale’s hips. His wits somewhat returned, he is cautious about startling the angel. Each touch is soft, questioning. He opens his mouth, feels the soft glide of Aziraphale’s tongue against his own. He moans, and his grip on Aziraphale’s hips tighten, pulling him closer and then relaxing. _I could do this forever,_ he thinks. _Just kiss you, and kiss you, and kiss you._

Aziraphale is not of the same opinion. He pulls back from Crowley’s kiss, and begins to kiss Crowley’s jaw, his neck. He’s quite fervent, and there are even flashes of teeth that Crowley finds inordinately arousing. He’s been half hard and now finds himself throbbing against his constrictive jeans. He leans his head back, allowing Aziraphale to gently tongue his way down to his clavicle. He nips every so often and Crowley’s cock pulses with each tiny graze of teeth. 

Aziraphale’s hands are doing something around Crowley’s sternum, and oh. . . With one hand he slips the buttons on Crowley’s vest free. The other slides under Crowley’s shirt, fingers curling in the hair on his chest. 

“So many complicated buttons” Aziraphale complains gently as his teeth nibble on Crowley’s collarbone. He sighs, and then sits back, shaking his head and looking down at Crowley as if he has worn all these layers on purpose just to frustrate him. He snaps his fingers. 

And Crowley finds that he is completely naked underneath Aziraphale. Except . . . for his scarf.

So much for going slow. 

“Did you just use a miracle to get rid of my clothes?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale’s eyes are hot on his own. “I did,” he says. He raises one eyebrow a fraction, daring a response. He plays with the scarf, sliding a tassel up and down Crowley’s chest. He leans in again, close enough that Crowley closes his eyes, thinks he’s going to kiss him again. But instead Aziraphale says, “No way to get you out of those jeans otherwise, and I do so want to suck your cock.” Aziraphale smiles coquettishly.

Said cock is leaking, hard, and rigid against Aziraphale’s trousers. He feels completely and totally out of his depth right now. "I never thought I would hear those words come out of your mouth," Crowley says, gasping. 

Aziraphale’s head lowers, ghosting over Crowley’s chest. His tongue swirls over Crowley's ribs, his belly. He presses his face into the thatch of red hair above Crowley's cock and nuzzles him. "You waited so long for me," Aziraphale murmurs against the sensitive skin of his groin. "All I want to do is show you how grateful I am. How much I love you, how much I want you." Crowley's breath catches, as he watches the angel sink, down, down, down, until he is poised over Crowley’s cock. Crowley looks down and Aziraphale’s eyes meet his own as he reaches out the very tip of his pink tongue, slides it over the head, tasting his precum.

"Ohhh, Aziraphale," Crowley moans. Aziraphale's eyes close and he gives that look that Crowley knows so well. The same look he makes when a strawberry creme filled chocolate goes into his mouth, and Crowley feels his cock surge in response to the memory. Aziraphale tongues his way up and down Crowley's cock, one hand fingering Crowley's ballsac, the other rubbing up and down the demon's thigh. Crowley is going mad. He clutches at the leather sofa, squeezes his eyes shut, desperate to touch Aziraphale, worried he’ll be too rough, and then he hears Aziraphale’s voice, in his mind. Except it’s not his voice, it’s an image. Behind his eyelids. He sees his hands in Aziraphale’s hair, sees himself thrusting into Aziraphale’s mouth. And then he does hear Aziraphale’s voice, but that’s impossible, because Aziraphale has taken all of him into his mouth and it’s so hot and warm and wet . . . 

_Please touch me._

Crowley opens his eyes, and looks down, but Aziraphale has his own eyes closed now, his mouth bobbing up and down on Crowley’s length. Crowley’s breath is coming faster and faster. “Aziraphale, Aziraphale, are you . . . oh, yes, yes, yes,” he hisses, when Aziraphale’s teeth gently scrape against him. 

The voice in his head again: 

_Put your hands in my hair, tell me what you like, talk to me. Show me what you need._

Crowley complies. He slides his hands into Aziraphale’s hair, down to gently finger Aziraphale’s ears, his jawline, back up to his hair. “Feels so good,” Crowley pants. “Your mouth, so wet, and hot.” 

He can feel Aziraphale moan around his cock, and he can feel . . . _oh_ , he can feel through the bond how much pleasure Aziraphale gets out of that, how achingly hard it makes him. Both of Aziraphale’s hands are sliding up and down his thighs, feeling all the skin available to him. 

_More,_ Aziraphale says in his mind. _Talk to me._

Crowley does. “So good, so good, angel, oh, ohh. I’ve wanted you, how much I’ve wanted you.” 

Crowley’s hips are shifting and he is desperately trying to keep them steady. Aziraphale’s hands press onto Crowley’s thighs harder, thumbs kneading circles there. Crowley gasps, continues to offer up his litany of words, spilling secrets as he nears the edge. 

“Wanted you for so long, angel, oh, crazy for your mouth, oh, your fucking mouth, I’ve seen you eat so many things, and you look so fucking pleased with yourself, like each bite is an orgasm, and ohh, ah . . . just wanted to see your mouth on me. Ahh. So many nights I sat and fucked my fist and dreamed about you and your perfect, beautiful, mouth ahh . . .” 

_Now,_ Aziraphale says in his mind. _Give it to me, give yourself to me. You're mine. I love you._

“Yes!” Crowley cries, slamming his eyes shut. "I love you, angel. . . " His hips are bucking now, and he’s coming and Aziraphale is chasing him, sucking, swirling his tongue up and down. 

The world disappears. 

_I love you,_ he hears Aziraphale’s voice ringing in his head. _I love you, my dear._ He’s floating again, but not in the cold, vastness of space. He feels like he’s in a bubble, but not one he can see through. He has no eyes, he has no mouth. . . his body is nowhere and everywhere at once, but it’s not a concern, because he is so very content in the place where he is. He feels so peaceful and calm . . . more peace than he’s ever known. He is so very _loved_ here. It’s like the nicest and coziest dream he can imagine. Soft, and warm. Like a nest. _Feathers,_ he thinks idly. 

_Feathers?_ Aziraphale asks. 

_Oh, Aziraphale is here too,_ he thinks. In the bubble. This lovely bubble, full of feathers. How did Aziraphale get in here with him? 

Crowley can feel Aziraphale, a warmer, softer thing in this warm soft place. He doesn’t have a body here, he is non corporeal, but he cozies up to this warmer softer Aziraphale thing anyway, nuzzles against it. 

_So lovely,_ he hears Aziraphale’s voice. _Oh Crowley, it’s so very lovely here with you._

The warmer, softer thing that’s Aziraphale is pressing against him, and Crowley feels so very close to him, so very close, closer than anything. He feels, for one moment, like they are inseparable. Like they’ll never be parted again, and it’s such a wonderful feeling. He is so very full, and he’ll never be empty again. And then he feels Aziraphale squirm, just a bit, and he lets go, and the soft and warm of Aziraphale is fluttering next to him.

_Now, my dear, we can’t ._. _. can’t do that forever,_ Aziraphale says. He sounds regretful. 

Crowley can’t find his mouth to speak in this bubble place.Too much softness. _Too many feathers,_ he thinks again. 

_What are you saying?_ Aziraphale asks. 

He knows it won’t work, but he puts all his effort into speaking to Aziraphale through the bond anyway. 

_FEELS LIKE FEATHERS!_

He feels Aziraphale’s shock reverberate through him seconds before the soft feather bubble bursts and then he is thrust back into reality. He’s on his knees on the floor of his flat. His trousers feel sticky, like he’s come in his. . . Wait. . . Trousers? He looks down and sees legs encased in beige trousers. . . Looks up to see his couch turned over in front of him, the black leather . . . black satin? . . . smushed into the floor, four knob legs sticking straight up. He hears a moan, hears his own voice echoing, “Crowley . . .”. It sounds like it’s coming from underneath. 

“Aziraphale?” he asks, and . . . that doesn’t sound like his voice. He goes to stand, and his body feels . . . wrong. He gets to his feet and tries to walk to the couch, but it’s more like a sashay because these hips don’t work quite the way he expects them to. He looks around the side of the couch and sees a bare foot sticking out. A bare foot that is exceedingly familiar, because it is _his_ bare foot. 

The toes flex. He hears a muffled voice, and it’s his own, and oh . . . oh what has just happened can’t possibly be actually happening. . . .“Crowley, what the devil have you done? Where are we?” 

He reaches out, calls on his demonic strength and neatly lifts the couch into the air. Underneath, he sees. . . himself, face up on the floor, completely naked except for that silly silver scarf. 

“Oh!” his voice. . . his body’s voice says. “Oh my.”

“Aziraphale?” he asks cautiously, with Aziraphale’s voice. “Did we . . . Did I . . .

Aziraphale, in Crowley’s body, blinks. “I rather think you did.” He sits up, and tries to stand, and falls back to the ground, legs akimbo. He huffs, and then slides himself out of the way. Crowley, in Aziraphale’s body, gently sets the couch back down, right side up and he can see that yes, the couch fabric actually _has_ been transformed into black satin. 

“You changed my couch!” he complains. “I liked that couch.” 

Aziraphale, on the floor, gives him a very strange look. Crowley has no idea what it means because it’s not a look he’s ever worn on his own face before. “I think we have some bigger issues than the couch right now.” 

“Who has a _satin_ couch?” Crowley continues. “You don’t even have a satin couch.” 

Aziraphale tries to stand, falls on his arse again. “Well,” he says testily. “I’ve not spent a significant amount of time making love on _my_ couch, have I?” He tries to stand again. He looks like a newly born colt on shaky legs. “Oh, for . . . for Someone's sake, what is wrong with these legs?”

Crowley throws out an arm to give him a hand, but then finds that he has to take a step closer to actually be of any assistance because his fingers don’t end where he expects them to. “Yeah, you’ve just had your brain sucked out through your cock, might be a little shaky there.” 

Aziraphale looks at him. “Do you think that did it?” he asks. He takes Crowley’s offered hand and then looks down at Crowley’s front. “Oh, please fix my trousers, they look a mess. I’m afraid I wasn’t really thinking through what I was doing when . . . when we were . . “ 

Crowley pulls at the front of his trousers and shifts uncomfortably. He snaps his fingers, and that’s much better. He looks up and sees his own face . . . blushing. “I didn’t think my face could do that,” he says idly. He leads . . . tries to lead Aziraphale to the couch. Crowley finds himself getting dizzy with all the swaying… Aziraphale’s hips are not limber enough for his normal walk, so his whole body swings side to side. Aziraphale, obviously not used to having so much leg, knocks it into the couch, then stubs his toe before he collapses in an ungraceful, undignified naked heap. 

The couch, even though it’s _satin_ , seems a safe enough place for both of them to sit for the time being. “Were you trying to do something?” Aziraphale asks. “Something like this?” 

“What?” Crowley asks. “No! I don’t . . . I mean, I don’t think so. What . . . what have we even done?”

“Crowley, before . . . before we started kissing, what do you remember?” Aziraphale asks. He shivers suddenly. “Where are my clothes?” 

“You’re the one that miracled them away, angel, not me,” Crowley says. He sighs and snaps his fingers. Aziraphale is suddenly re-dressed, in a fresh clean set of Crowley’s own clothes. 

He looks at Crowley in alarm. “These pants are so tight!” 

Crowley snorts. “You get used to it. You were saying?” 

“What do you remember before we started kissing?”

Crowley opens his mouth, “I was-” he stops abruptly. What _had_ happened? “I was . . . floating . . .” He remembers the feeling of the presence standing behind him and shudders. “There was something . . . _someone_. . .” Aziraphale is looking at him very strangely. “Why, what happened to you?”

“I could feel you, Crowley. I was feeling all your emotions, and you wouldn’t let go of me. You said you couldn’t feel our bond anymore-”

Crowley looks inside himself, searches for the bond and is blown away. His eyes go wide with surprise. “Aziraphale, do you . . . do you feel it now?” Where there had been a hole, and before that a small tether, there was now a veritable bridge. “It’s like a highway.” 

Aziraphale smiles, and Crowley thinks, _I guess I can see why he likes me._ “It is, isn’t it?” he says, delighted. “Oh, Crowley, it’s so beautiful now.” He reaches out and grabs both of Crowley’s hands, and closes his eyes, and then . . . 

Crowley is back in the bubble. The wave of peace and calm that came over him returns. He feels something tickle him, and thinks, _Feathers_.

_No more feathers!_ Aziraphale says, sternly. _Now, look, I think I know what we did and how we can fix it._

Crowley floats. Aziraphale sounds concerned, but what could possibly be concerning here, in this lovely soft bubble? 

_Crowley, are you paying attention?_ Aziraphale asks. 

_Yes, yes,_ Crowley says, but he’s so content, it’s hard to not want to just fall asleep . . .

_Don’t fall asleep_! Aziraphale says. _I’m not sure what would happen if you do that. We can test it another time. Just . . . think about coming to me. Can you come to me?_

_I loved coming for you,_ Crowley thinks. _You felt so good. Felt so good to be with you, angel, after so long . . ._

_Crowley! Pay attention!_ Aziraphale sounds cross. Crowley feels hurt. The bubble shimmers around him, seems to be getting thinner. 

_No, no, no,_ Aziraphale says. _No, dear heart, please, please come to me. I love you._

Crowley feels the softness and warmth that is Aziraphale next to him. He leans towards it. _Angel . . ._

_Yes, that’s it,_ Aziraphale says. _I love you, come to me, my darling . . ._

Crowley pushes himself into that softness and warmth again, and he feels so very full again. Filled right up to the brim. It’s wonderful. The best thing he’s ever felt. 

Aziraphale is pulling away, gently, oh so gently, but Crowley says, _No, no, please . . ._

_Later, dearest,_ Aziraphale promises and part of Crowley sings to hear that word. _Dearest . . ._

Then he’s through, on the other side, and the bubble has popped. 

He opens his eyes, startled, and finds that he’s back in his own body, looking at Aziraphale, who’s clasped his hands. 

“There you are,” Aziraphale says gently. He smiles. 

“Aziraphale, what-”

“A soul bond,” Aziraphale says. “A true soul bond, that’s what we have now, not . . . not what I did to you back in the garden. A proper bond. Blessed by God Herself.” He is beaming. “It will, uhm, take some getting used to, I think. So we don’t get . . . switched again.”

“Switched,” Crowley says flatly. He is having an epiphany. 

“You know, switched around, in each other’s bodies.” 

“In each other’s bodies.” Lights are flashing in Crowley’s head. Harps are playing. 

“I’d much rather be wearing my own skin, my own face-” 

A choir is singing in Crowley’s skull. “Aziraphale . . .”

The music must be loud enough for Aziraphale to hear, because the angel has gone pale and his mouth is hanging open. “Crowley, she said to-”

“Choose our faces wisely,” Crowley finishes. His eyes meet Aziraphale’s own, and he smiles brilliantly. “I think we’ve got our solution, angel.”


	29. Sunday, 2019: The Very First Day of the Rest of Their Lives (Day 29: Whatever)

The Very First Day of the Rest of Their Lives - The Ritz

Crowley has been idly playing with their bond all through lunch. Aziraphale can feel him reaching out through it. He’s not talking to Aziraphale that way, not communicating directly. He’s toying with it the way Aziraphale has seen people fidget with pens, bounce their knees, bite a fingernail. Except every time Crowley toys with it it feels like his hand is on Aziraphale’s wrist, or like their knees are gently bumping together, or, right now, like Crowley’s ghosting his breath just across the back of Aziraphale’s neck. It’s driving Aziraphale just a bit mad. 

“Is there a reason you’re doing that, my dear?” he asks, delicately finishing his glass of champagne. 

Crowley raises eyebrows, glances at Aziraphale over the rim of his sunglasses. “Doing what?” he asks innocently. Too innocently. Crowley has never been this innocent in his entire life. 

“Playing with it,” Aziraphale hisses. “I can feel it, you know.” He picks up the dessert menu the waiter has left behind. 

“Oh,” Crowley says. He pushes his glasses back up on his nose, covering his eyes. “Just. . . It’s a new thing, right? Just interested in exploring what I can do with it.”

Aziraphale looks determinedly at the dessert menu. “We have the rest of our lives to explore it, I think.”

“Or at least until Heaven and Hell regroup,” Crowley says. 

“Don’t be pessimistic, dear,” Aziraphale tuts. There is a flourless chocolate cake with a raspberry filling that has caught Aziraphale’s eye. He imagines how dense the mouthfeel will be, and—

_Aziraphale’s trousers are undone, his pants pulled down, and Crowley is on his knees before him, his tongue drawing circles up and down the angel’s cock, pressing open mouth kisses as he sucks gently, down to the base-_

Aziraphale blinks, breathes hard. He swallows, turns to look at Crowley. . . 

. . . who has the most wicked smile on his face. 

“Is that what you’ve been trying to figure out how to do?” Aziraphale asks, a little breathlessly. He looks at the menu, then back up at Crowley. “I guess you want to skip dessert.”

“Not. At. All,” Crowley says, his voice low and husky. 

_Aziraphale in his female form in a silk nightie, creamy white lace, rucked up around his thighs. His breasts strain at the lace while Crowley licks his nipple through the silk, his tongue swirling over and over, making Aziraphale give out soft high pitched gasps. He has one hand between Aziraphale’s thighs, three fingers buried deep inside, his thumb rubbing Aziraphale’s clit-_

Aziraphale has gone quite pink in the cheeks, and his breathing is ragged. He sets down the dessert menu. “Perhaps,” he says, and his voice shakes only a little bit, “you would prefer to have dessert elsewhere?”

Crowley smiles. “Excellent idea. Maybe we can just pick something up and walk back to your bookshop?” He is thoroughly enjoying this game. 

“ I think that’s an excellent idea.” Aziraphale has had quite enough of Crowley’s antics, so he sends his own image through the link.

_Crowley, pushed up against the wall of the bookstore, his head thrown back, moaning as Aziraphale lifts him, slides effortlessly into him, his legs wrapping around Aziraphale’s waist, his hands clutching at Aziraphale’s shoulders-_

A thunk jolts Aziraphale from the thought. Crowley has stood and knocked over his chair. He’s breathing hard. He removes his wallet from his back pocket and drops more than enough pounds on the table to cover their meal and give a substantial tip to the waiter. 

Aziraphale smiles a little smugly. “In a hurry, my dear?” He delicately pats his mouth with his napkin, and folds it gently on the table. Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand and practically pulls him towards the door. 

On the sidewalk, Aziraphale grips his hand tightly and forces them to walk at a slow pace, hand in hand. “It is a beautiful day, let’s walk back to the shop.” 

Crowley raises his eyebrows, but acquiesces. Aziraphale hums peacefully, his thumb gently rubbing the back of Crowley’s hand as they walk. 

“What do you like best?” Azirapgale asks idly. 

“What do you mean?”

Aziraphale sends him an image through the link. 

_On the couch in the back room of the shop, Aziraphale rides Crowley’s cock, his thighs trembling as he lifts himself up and down-_

“Truce!” Crowley croaks. He lets go of Aziraphale’s hand and stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk. Annoyed humans clear a path around him. “Aziraphale,” he says thickly. 

_I’m not going to make it to the shop_ , he says through their link. _If you don’t stop that._

Aziraphale feels very, very pleased with himself. He smiles, delighted. “All right, my dear, truce.” 

They continue walking towards the shop, side by side, hands to themselves. “Although,” Aziraphale begins, as if they have been having a conversation this whole time. “I do really want to know if I should . . . change things. I mean, in preparation,” he says. He looks at Crowley, who is giving him a puzzled glance. “I mean, for you, for us to . . “ 

Crowley huffs like Aziraphale has asked the stupidest question yet. “I like you whatever and however you are, angel.” They’re approaching the front of the bookshop. “In any way you’ll let me have you.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says softly. He is not prepared for how completely loved and aroused that makes him feel. He walks up the steps to the shop, uses his key to open the front door. He and Crowley are about to enter, when he pauses on the stoop. He looks at Crowley in the sunlight. 

“Will you take off your sunglasses?” Aziraphale asks. 

“What, now?”

Aziraphale nods. “Just for a moment.” 

Crowley complies, albeit somewhat cautiously. “What are you-” 

Azriaphale grabs the lapels of Crowley’s jacket, pulls him close, and presses their lips together. 

Crowley responds immediately, his arms going around Aziraphale, sunglasses falling to the pavement. Aziraphale clutches him in a desperate embrace. He tries to put everything he’s feeling into the kiss, feels his emotions well up and spill over into the bond. The absolute relief he felt at seeing Crowley sitting on that bench, the joy at their mutual freedom, the love that he’s overwhelmed to finally be able to express. He lets Crowley feel it all, feels the same echoed back at him, and another emotion that he can’t quite name until it smacks him in the face. Admiration. 

Aziraphale breaks the kiss, but rests his forehead against Crowley’s own. “I love you,” he says. 

Crowley pulls back and smiles. “Do you think Heaven is still watching you?” he asks gently. 

“Oh, I do hope so.” Aziraphale looks at Crowley’s lovely red hair, golden eyes. He’s beautiful in this afternoon light, and it reminds Aziraphale of the garden, of that first brilliant smile Crowley gave him. “I want them to know exactly how much I adore you.” 

“Come inside,” Crowley says, in a tone that’s both gentle and sensual. “I want to make love to you until you can’t remember your own name.”

Aziraphale huffs. “If you think I’m going to get into one of those gowns for you-” 

Crowley licks his lips.

Aziraphale swallows thickly. “I’ll think about it.” 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and comments! I hope you've enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it! This was a ton of fun and I was so sad when it finished.

**Author's Note:**

> I made a playlist for this story on Spotify: [ An Ineffable Plan: The Fanmix](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7FBFENIRNe7Eu4sWqylAu4?si=MMaxkEcFTma8FrgqKiuxJg) Each song relates to a specific chapter and they are in order. 
> 
> Come find me [on Tumblr](https://thebright1.tumblr.com).


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